If you could only see
by Mikiya2200
Summary: A month before Sam could accept the free ride to Stanford he was cursed. It changed his life forever, he couldn't leave for college and was forced to stay with his family and continue hunting. But, if you ask him, that might not be the worst part. - AU
1. Chapter 1

**Notes**: So, this is it, this is where my mind has been for the past weeks. This is the first part of what could become a verse but serves as a stand-alone (or mood-setting if you will) for the time being. As usual, this started out with a short scene that confused me a lot and which got longer and longer until I sat down at my laptop and started to write it down. I'm having mixed feelings about posting it, not because I think it's bad or anything, but because I've worked so long on it that I can't tell if I actually got it out the way I wanted to when I started this and that just feels weird.

The biggest THANKS ever goes out to my "twin-sister" **Ghost4**. She put sooo much time and effort into this story that I should list her as my co-author (and I would SO do it if I knew she would accept it (sadly she won't)), without her I wouldn't have written it down nor worked up enough courage to actually post it. She doesn't know I'm already posting it, so this is a surprise for her, I hope she enjoys it. I love you, hun, this is for you, I'm dedicating this fic to you and you can't stop me! *evil laugh*

Just another side-note before I go on with the story: Since I've been asked this a few times now I want to stress that this fic has nothing to do with Skag Trendy's awesome "Hunter of the shadows"-AU, it wasn't inspired by her story (though I have to admit it's one of my all-time-favourite stories ever) and I am not trying to copy it. I don't really know why I feel I have to include this into my notes, but after a few not so nice experiences with other writers/reviewers I've become a little nervous about stepping on other people's toes and I love her verse way too much for that.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Impala, I don't own Dean, I don't own Sam. Or John. Or Bobby. I do own the idea though and I'm not giving that back!

* * *

_If you could only see the beast you've made of me,  
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free.  
_  
"Howl"  
_**Florence and the Machine**_

* * *

_June 9__th__, 2010_

_We're at the motel, waiting for Bobby. Dean called, he won't make it tonight, he'll be here tomorrow around noon. Already checked the equipment, everything's where it's supposed to be, this nest is going down. _

_Sam's restless; whatever magic is in the air it's driving him nuts. And it's starting to piss me off. He's twitching and growling all the time – and on top of that he keeps changing forms almost every thirty minutes now. He just won't stop pacing the damned room; I'm __so__ close to tying him to the bed post, just to make him stop. I've tried ordering him to quit changing, but it seems like he just can't hang on to either form. I wish I could tell him to run this—whatever it is— out of his system. Like when he used to get mad at me for no reason and he would jog around the block for hours. But this time I can't send him outside, somebody might see him; it's not even dark yet. I need to look into why this is happening. Why here? Why now? __We- _I_ need to get a grip on this – what if something like this happens when we're out on the street? It's never been this random before. Sam says he can taste the magic in the air on his tongue, that something really powerful is out there but he has no idea what it is. Only that it's _here_, somewhere._

_Maybe I should get out of the room for awhile, work on the busted headlight, give __him__- _both_ of us some space to cool down. Sam'd stay in the room if I told him, maybe calm down if I got out of his hair—_

A low, throaty growl echoes through the room.

John looks up from the journal and turns in his seat, tired eyes setting on the dark form slipping out of the shadows between the beds.

The wolf's ears are flat against its head, its shaggy body is tense, its movements are slow, almost stiff as it stalks toward the door. It's a fairly large animal with a thick, gray coat. Its hackles are up, making it look twice as big as it really is. Its golden-brown eyes never leave the knob as it moves closer to the door, lips peeling back to reveal sharp, pearly-white fangs.

The next growl is barely audible and if possible the wolf gets even more tense, almost still as a statue, but there is a subtle bunching of muscles in its haunches as it gets ready to strike, its body language screaming at John louder than words ever have.

_Danger_.

"What is it?" John gets out of his chair and pulls his gun, holding it behind his back as he slowly approaches the window. The wolf lowers its head a little, staring at the doorknob. John knows the moment he opens the door it will be at the throat of whoever happens to be outside.

There is a soft knock on the door. "It's me."

_Bobby_.

The wolf doesn't back down at the familiar voice – in fact, it doesn't move at all, fangs still bared.

"Sam, down." It's not an order, not _yet_.

He can see how the wolf tries to calm down for a moment, one massive paw rising slowly to take a step back.

Suddenly there's a sound outside, somewhere distant, down the hall, but it's close enough; the wolf's ears twitch and it moves _forward_, fur brushing against the chair in its path.

Another growl.

This won't work.

"Sam, back off, _now_." He means it this time, and he can feel Sam's furious gaze on him as the lean body slides away from the door and settles down beside him, still half in front of him, guarding him. Powerful muscles tremble nervously against John's legs where Sam is leaning against him and this contact more than anything else tells him that his son is really worried; Sam, human or wolf, would never be this close to him if he could help it.

He carefully brushes a finger against Sam's sensitive ear (_message received_), then moves his hand into Sam's line of sight and shifts it in a certain way, a silent command (_cover my back_). Sam obeys reluctantly, disappearing into the shadows under the table John had been sitting at.

John aims his gun at the door, stands in the middle of the room so he can move freely if he needs to and calls out, "Door's open, Bobby."

There's a moment of silence and he can feel his heart slam against his ribs, then skip a beat as the door slowly opens. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Sam crouch low on the floor, ready to leap at whatever is in front of them.

The door swings open and Bobby looks at him, hands raised to chest-level to show he's unarmed. The older hunter doesn't move, just stares back at John evenly. "You want me to slow-dance now?"

Before either of them can move a shadow dashes toward the newcomer and John has enough time to realize that Sam isn't staring at Bobby but at some_thing_? behind him before his son disappears through the open door.

"Son of a—SAM!"

He's after him in a heartbeat, just in time to see the lean form cross the parking lot at top speed. He's still within earshot and John doesn't really care that he literally barks after him to "GET YOUR ASS BACK INSIDE THE ROOM!"

Even after all those years it still amazes him how Sam's body responds to the command, even though his brain certainly doesn't agree with him; it almost seems as if he freezes in mid-stride and then his son jerks around and starts trotting back toward them. He might not be in control of where he is going until he is back inside the room, but he is definitely aware of what's happened, and his eyes are glaring at John, burning with a fury at being _forced _to obey. John can feel that look all the way down to his toes. He senses another endless argument about this coming his way and sighs wearily, running a hand across his face as he waits for Sam to get back to them.

Bobby is watching, not looking at either of them. Sam brushes against Bobby's legs in a silent greeting before he finally disappears into the motel room.

The moment Sam's out of view John feels himself sag a little. He stares at his car for a moment, almost forgetting about Bobby and his enraged son inside the motel room. It's one of those moments where he just wants out, wants to go back to before Mary's… or at least before the damned curse. Their lives had been fucked up before, but ever since—

"John."

He's still too aware of where he is so he isn't really caught off-guard by Bobby's voice, but it takes him a second to pull his thoughts together before he turns around and eyes the old man.

Bobby's standing in the doorway to their room, eyes trained on Sam inside. John can't see Sam from where he is standing but he is pretty sure Bobby's watching him.

"He's in pain."

It sounds like both a question and an accusation - and John knows that's exactly what it is. As if he's responsible for everything the kid goes through.

He joins the older hunter at the door and sure enough there's Sam, pacing the small room nervously, body tense, fur standing on edge all over the place, panting softly. He is clearly in some sort of distress and doesn't acknowledge their presence with more than a fleeting side glance at them whenever he passes the door. John nods absentmindedly, remembers that the last change took place about half an hour before Bobby joined them. So, any second now…

Bobby's still waiting for an answer and turns to look at him when he doesn't respond. "What's wrong with him?"

Sam lets out a growl that sounds both pissed off and pained. Before John can say anything the large body turns abruptly and dashes off to the bathroom, almost tearing down the half-open door in his haste to get inside. A second later it is slammed shut.

Bobby raises a worried eyebrow and John can't suppress a soft sigh as he steps into the room.

"Something's wrong with this town. He's been like this ever since we got here," he says, closing the door behind Bobby. "He keeps changing and we can't stop it, he can't settle down, insists that _something_ is out there and he needs to go after it. I don't know what this is, Bobby, there was nothing on the news, nothing I could find to cause this."

Bobby scratches his beard, eyeing the closed bathroom door for a moment. "Think it's the nest?"

The shower comes on.

John walks over to their cold box and gets three beers. He hands one to Bobby, and leaves the second on the desk, then he sits down with his own on his bed. He shrugs. "I don't know, he's never been like this before."

"I don't see how vamps could do that to him," Bobby says, taking a long sip. "You think it's the town?"

"I don't know..."

"Then why don't you get out of town then 'til everybody's here?"

John actually freezes for a second, he hasn't thought about this. He considers it for a moment, tries to remember when exactly Sam had started acting strange. He believes the first change had been around the moment they had been near the city limits. So if this somehow connected to a specific area then Bobby is right, they have to leave and get Sam out of this. Regroup out of town, Sam is of no use to them like this.

When he looks up the 'useless' son in question is standing in the doorway. He's wearing his jeans and a white T-shirt, his wet hair is plastered to his skull and he looks tired, the last lines of pain slowly fading from his face as he stretches slightly. A warm smile crosses his lips when his eyes settle on their guest.

"Hey, Bobby."

Bobby lifts his bottle in greeting. "Hey, kid, feel any better?"

Sam's eyes immediately dart to the closed front door, then to John, the smile turning into an almost-snarl before he forces his features into a noncommittal expression.

"I'm fine," is what he says, but _this isn't over_ is what he means.

John simply looks back at him, fighting hard not to rise to the bait.

_It is._

Sam stares at him, too edgy, too fucking _stubborn_ to look away first. John knows it's as much a wolf-thing as it is a part of Sam's inherent tendency to do whatever the fuck he pleases; he knows Sam won't back down from what could easily become a tense staring _contest_. To break eye contact would mean to give in, to draw the short straw and _dammit_, they've done this a billion times before. They don't have time for this rebellious shit right now.

"Pack your stuff, we're leaving." Sam's aggressive mood is rubbing off on him and for a moment he isn't even sure if he has just given another order that Sam won't be able to resist. The way his son squares his shoulders and remains where he is tells him he hasn't.

"What about the nest?"

John barely refrains from rolling his eyes, his hold on the bottle tightening briefly. It's whatever Sam's sensing in the air around them that's driving him up the walls, makes him an even bigger pain in the ass than usual, John knows that. Not that knowing it helps. Sam's attitude has always hit a nerve with John, and now it's painfully obvious that he's trying to pick a fight to relieve some of the stress he is in. And he should do something to help him.

But he can't. He remembers what happened in Wisconsin, how the argument had gotten out of hand and they'd ended up winding each other up more and more until one of them had snapped. He doesn't remember who, his memories are somewhat hazy about that, but he does remember the fight after. How neither of them had held back or backed off, not even at the sound of a rib snapping or glass breaking beneath them. It had cleared the air a little between them for a few glorious days, but they don't have time for this, not now. Not with Bobby watching them.

"We need to get you away from this."

Sam doesn't snarl at Bobby, doesn't even scowl at him when the older hunter speaks softly, he just looks over at him, looks at him with the kind of _respect_ in his eyes that John hasn't seen in _years. _And then he nods. Just like that, a quick movement of his head, no growl, no argument. Sam simply turns around and starts packing some things into his duffle.

And John is this close to throwing his old friend out of the room.

Bobby meets his eyes and shrugs slightly, watching as Sam disappears into the bathroom again and closes the door behind him. John forces himself to give his friend a nod he hopes seems at least a little thankful, then turns around and puts the few things he had used back into his bag. He is closing it by the time Sam comes out of the bathroom and moves toward the door, then stops. He doesn't say anything just remains standing in front of the door, duffel in one hand, shoulders tense.

It takes John a moment to realize that Sam _can't_ leave the room after his earlier order and for just a second his lips want to break into a contented smile. It shouldn't feel this good, he should feel horrible for even thinking that he is actually enjoying getting back at Sam for his insolent behavior, the never-ending arguments, the whining, growling, _snarling_… His conscience kicks in, hard, the part of him that wants to protect his boy and keep him from harm. The part that always seems to hide on days like this, no matter how hard he tries to be fair, forgiving, how hard he tries to remember what this curse did to them, to _both_ of them.

"Get out, Sam, but don't go chasing after it again." He tries to keep his voice soft, make it as much a not-order as he can while still releasing Sam from the previous command. His son takes a deep breath and opens the door without looking back, is out of the room just a second later. John stares at the door for a moment, he doesn't really want to leave and spend the long drive with Sam scowling next to him, he's had enough of that now.

But they have no choice.

He looks up to find Bobby looking at the door, lost in his own thoughts as it seems, and John clears his throat slightly but doesn't say anything. He can't read his friend's face, but whatever the older hunter is thinking it's definitely not happy thoughts. Bobby senses his gaze, turns and catches his eyes for a moment. They just look at each other, John somehow at a loss for words and Bobby studying him without saying anything. Then the moment is over, Bobby gives a short nod and John finds himself following him out of the room. He locks the door behind them, deciding to keep the keys for now since he has paid for the room for three days in advance and steps out onto the parking lot.

The cool night air refreshes his senses for a moment and he takes a deep breath before he gets to the trunk of their car. He pops it open and throws his duffel inside, waiting for his son to do the same. It takes him a moment to realize that Sam is not at his side and his head snaps up. He almost expects to see Sam's discarded bag lying next to their door, thrown away in yet another fit of rage. It wouldn't be the first time. But there is no bag, no –

_Dammit_.

He turns around to Bobby and freezes. Sam is standing next to the passenger's door of Bobby's truck pointedly not looking at him, just staring off into the darkness. Bobby catches John's eyes again in a silent question. John feels too stunned to do more than roll his eyes and shrug. He isn't going to comment on that, there isn't anything he can say. Without taking another look at the older hunter and his son, John gets into his car and starts the engine. Bobby pulls out of his slot and up onto the street and John follows, fingers tightening on the wheel as he watches their silhouettes through Bobby's rear window.

Twenty minutes into the drive Bobby suddenly pulls over onto the side of the road and stops. John isn't quick enough to break and passes him, pulls over a second later and rolls to a stop in front of Bobby's truck. A quick glance in the rear view mirror tells him Bobby has left his car and is jogging toward his passenger's side. He doesn't open the door though.

John is out of his car a moment later and he crosses the distance with long strides. From what he can see through the windshield Sam has changed forms again and is currently pressing his furry head against his door, his wet nose smearing a weird pattern across the glass. When he gets closer he can hear a miserable whine from inside the car and suddenly the wolf explodes into movement, starts to scratch at the door with his front paws, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. John follows his stare but all he can see are trees.

Bobby doesn't take his eyes off the wolf. "He started shaking all of a sudden and then he changed, said something was _calling_ him…"

As they watch, Sam doubles his efforts at trying to burrow through the door, the sounds escaping his throat turning into desperate whimpers. His head comes up again and again, staring off into the distance, before he drops it and goes on scratching. He doesn't seem to notice them, or simply ignores them, John can't really tell. He takes a step closer, goes right into the animal's line of sight, blocking his view of the forest. When the wolf's head comes up again he stops, looks up at John and lets out miserable a whine, ears flattening against his head as he shakes his head vigorously, then visibly tries to calm himself down. Small tremors start coursing through his body and only a moment later he starts panting heavily, then suddenly turns his head and sinks his fangs into the headrest.

"Sam, _STOP_ it!"

The wolf backs off immediately, literally jumps back from the door and starts growling deep in his throat, then twists awkwardly and starts going at the seat with his claws again, his whole body twisting and shaking uncontrollably.

"Damn it, what is this?" John is growling himself at this point, hands going for the door handle. Bobby holds him back before he can open the door.

"You sure he's not going to just run off if you let him out?"

"We can't leave him inside, he'll take your car apart if I don't stop him."

"You think you're strong enough to hold him back?"

John barely looks at him, eyes locked to the shivering wolf. "We'll have to find out. Bobby, get out of the way."

Bobby steps around the car and watches worriedly. John bends down to look at the animal through the side window, clearing his throat. "Sam, _down_."

The lean body instantly collapses onto the seat, paws twitching restlessly. The wild eyes meet John's for a moment and he is shocked at the miserable pain he can read in them.

"Damn it, Sammy…"

His protective instincts kick in, his kid is _suffering_ in front of him and he needs to do something to help him. He opens the door, grumbles a soft "Stay" when the wolf makes a move to try and get out and Sam complies, settling back down on the seat. His breath is coming in harsh pants and his tongue almost touches his paws as it lolls from his foam flecked mouth. The shivering becomes worse. John looks up at Bobby watching them worriedly through the front window.

"Bobby, get the collar and the leash out of the trunk."

The wolf growls deep in his throat at those words and his furious gaze meets John's, his eyes burning brightly with barely suppressed rage. John forces himself to stay calm, he knows how much the wolf loathes them, that he will do anything not to have them put on – but they have no choice, he can't take the risk that the wolf might simply take off on them. "I don't want to, Sam, but you leave me no choice…"

Bobby returns with the baby blue collar Dean had picked all those years ago to annoy Sam to no end and a strong leash that is actually able to hold Sam back. They had learned the hard way that not all were strong enough if he really put some four-legged strength into it, but the horse lead-rope had put an end to that. It's at least thrice as strong as the leashes they'd tested and the first two feet are made of chain so that the horses – or Sam – can't chew through it. It still doesn't mean Sam can't free himself if he really wanted to since he'd pointed out – more than once – that he would simply bite through the part of the leash that wasn't made of chain, but it is enough to hold him back if they are out in public or on a hunt and Sam decides to get overly excited about a trail.

The wolf eyes the hated collar and his hackles rise, lips peeling back to reveal his fangs as he growls at the offending thing, but John doesn't hesitate, he leans into the car toward the pissed-off wolf and closes the collar around the thick neck and prickly hackles mane, then attaches the leash to it. "Get out."

One moment he is kneeling in the open door, the next he is on his ass on the ground, his right shoulder screaming in pain as it is almost wrenched out of its socket when the animal explodes from the car with the speed and force of a freight train, snapping the leash connecting them tight within a second. John barks out a pained curse, then looks at where the wolf is digging his paws into the ground, straining against the leash with all his might, strangling himself with the collar. He makes a pathetic wheezing sound that almost has John drop the leash as it sounds as if he is suffocating. "Dammit, Sam, stop it!"

As before, the wolf collapses to the floor, wheezing air into his lungs. He looks utterly exhausted and miserable and still can't seem to calm down. Bobby goes over to him and kneels down next to him, resting a hand on top of his head. He murmurs something under his breath and is answered with a low whine as the canine's tail begins thumping the ground sluggishly. Bobby runs a hand through the thick fur, doing what John is only allowed if the wolf is heavily injured and too out of it to notice.

Because Sam isn't really an animal, not even in this form. The spell has made damned sure of that. He has wolfish instincts, a lot of them when he is in this form, he has a better sense of smell, his hearing increases and his first reaction in a tense situation often is to run away. He always comes back though, he hasn't ever let them down. Because he is still Sam beneath all that freaky ass fur, wolf slobber and dog breath as Dean would say. He doesn't tolerate to be petted, he doesn't sleep at John's feet at nights, and he sure as hell doesn't answer to his orders if he doesn't have to. So far Dean has been the only one who isn't growled at or snapped at if he showed affection to the beast, and that doesn't really surprise John in the least.

But somehow Bobby seems to break through to him, is able to calm him down when all John's touch would do is drive his son up the proverbial wall even further. Bobby stays next to Sam until the hectic wheezing turns into normal pants for breath and the whine is completely gone from the wolf's voice.

John lets go of the leash but orders Sam not to run away from them. He watches as one ear is turned into his direction but the head doesn't turn to look at him. It hurts him to see his son like this, in pain – no matter what Sam might believe he _hates_ feeling this helpless, and he would give anything to help him through it, or to find something that could help him. He runs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath, looks into the small forest the wolf doesn't take his eyes from.

"You wanna go after it?" Bobby's voice is soft and when John looks at him the older hunter is still threading his fingers through the fur although his attention seems to be on the forest as well. Every instinct in John screams 'yes, I wanna hunt down whatever is doing this to my son', but they are not prepared. To go in like this is too risky, they have no weapons, no plan, nothing. He shakes his head no.

"Too risky." He thinks about it for a moment. "Bobby, before he changed, what exactly did he say?"

"He said it's calling him again and he has to go. And then he started shivering all over, looked like he was in pain."

The change is a very painful process, Sam doesn't just go _poof_ and suddenly has four legs and a tail like in the movies. It usually leaves him exhausted and disorientated. John can only imagine how bad it has to be for Sam to be forced from one form into the other on a half an hour basis, no wonder the kid is at the end of his rope and snarling at everybody.

_Damn,_ he should have noticed it sooner—

"You ever heard about something like this?"

Bobby looks up from where he is still kneeling, running a hand over his face. "There is all sorts of lore about creatures calling people to them. Most of them lead their victims into a trap to feed on them or kill them. There are sirens, changelings… I wouldn't really know where to start." He takes his cap off, scratches his head for a moment, looks down at Sam. "I'd say this is different, Sam's case pretty unique, I've never heard about something going exclusively after animals."

"Sam's no animal, Bobby!" John snaps at his friend before he can stop himself. Bobby looks up at him again, a silent warning glimmering in his eyes.

"I know that." He gives Sam's head a pat and gets back to his feet. "Sam's fine as long as he is human; it only gets this bad when he's like this."

John is taken aback; the truth is he hasn't been paying attention to that particular detail. All he knows so far is that whatever is out there has Sam acting strange in general. He thinks back to the three hours they had spent at the motel and now that Bobby's pointed it out to him he realizes that the old man is right, Sam had been tense all day but he had not been feeling miserable. Whenever he had changed though he had _changed_, he'd been edgy and panting and pacing the room, unable to settle down.

And _goddamn it_, again, he should have seen that, it should not have escaped his notice, he'd been too focused on the tension between _them_, what it was doing to them on a personal level. He'd lost sight of the case at hand, something he'd sworn to himself would never happen again. He hadn't bothered to ask Sam, had been too relieved every time Sam had changed back and gone quiet, dozing on his bed until the next change hit. They should have left the town hours ago.

He looks down at his son cowering on the ground, watches the minute shivers coursing through the tense body, the way the wolf licks his lips again and again, ears once again flat against his head as if he is listening to their conversation, paws twitching restlessly.

This ends, now, he'll get them—_him_ out of this ASAP.

He bends down, snaps the leash off the collar. "Get in the car, we're leaving."

Sam doesn't even growl at that, he struggles to get to his paws and once he's upright he sways precariously for a second, then slinks around Bobby's legs and pads over to their car. His head is hanging low, tail almost brushing the ground, if you weren't familiar with canine body language you could easily mistake his posture for one of respect and obedience, especially since he doesn't even growl at the prospect of driving in the same car as his father. John knows better, Sam's exhausted, it's taking his last reserves of strength to move at all and John doesn't wait, coiling up the long leash as he follows him to the car. He opens the backdoor, waits until Sam is settled on the back seat and puts one of their spare blankets next to him. It will take them at least another half hour to pass the city limits; if Sam starts changing he will need something to cover himself with.

He closes the door and turns back to Bobby. The older hunter is still standing where the wolf had been lying and he's watching the forest, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

"Bobby?"

Bobby turns to him, looks at the car, then at his own, then back at John. "I know someone who could look into this, gonna phone her on the drive."

John gives him a grateful nod, then opens his door and gets inside. A quick glance over his shoulder tells him Sam has curled up on the seat, his back to him, still panting softly.

"We're not gonna stop again, try to keep it down." He keeps his voice low, as non-dominant and friendly as he can. Sam doesn't react, at least not in words – or sounds for that matter – but his hackles go down fractionally and his legs relax against the seat, there might even be a soft sigh but the sound gets lost when John starts the car. They are back on the road a moment later.

They've left the city limits behind them for about 5 minutes when Sam suddenly jerks violently on the backseat, makes a strained whining sound at the back of his throat and John's alarmed gaze into the rear view mirror shows him the familiar twitches that indicate a change. He doesn't know what might happen once Sam is back to having two legs instead of four and so he pulls over, listening to the sounds of bones shifting —_breaking_—under skin, eyes on the road in front of him. He knows Sam hates being watched as the curse takes him over but it's hard not keeping an eye on him when he knows how much pain his son is in during the transformation. Sam had once told him that it is gone as soon as it stops, but hearing him wheezing in pained breaths during the change makes it hard for John to believe that. He has done research on this part of werewolves and the entrance in one of the few journals he'd managed to dig up has been haunting him ever since.

**_The werewolf heart is about two-thirds the size of a human's, but in order to shrink, first it has to stop. In other words, he has a heart attack. All the internal organs are smaller, so while he's having his heart attack, he's having liver and kidney failure too. And if he stops screaming, it's not because the pain is dulled; his throat, gullet, and vocal cords are tearing and reforming – he literally can't make a sound. By now the pituitary gland should be working overtime, flooding his body with endorphins to ease some of the pain, but that, too, has shut down. Anyone else would have died of shock long ago, but it won't kill him._** [1]

Sam isn't a werewolf, whatever magic is behind his changes doesn't have to work like this, but it still has Sam crying out in _agony_ every time it hits and he knows how bad it has to hurt for Sam to make sounds like that. Every time John has to watch he curses the bitch that did this to them, wishing he could kill her again to make her suffer just as much but he can't. And that's what it always comes down to, even after all these years, all he can do is wait it out… and feel helpless.

Something is dropped down onto the passenger's seat and John turns in his seat to find the collar next to him. Right, he'd forgotten to take that damned thing off.

"You okay?" He turns all the way and Sam looks back at him with tired eyes. He's already wrapped in the blanket, fighting hard to keep his eyes open. His skin is a little paler than normal and his sweaty bangs fall into his eyes, but he doesn't seem to be in pain anymore. He is twisting in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, but gives up and eventually leans back, head resting against the window.

"I'm fine…" He is still a little out of breath and his voice sounds strained, but he settles down gradually. "Clothes still in Bobby's car?" He's slurring his words now, his eyes taking longer and longer to open and before John has the chance to answer Sam relaxes into the backrest with a soft sigh, his breath evening out within a few moments.

John doesn't bother to get the clothes; he rolls down his window, gives Bobby a thumps-up and pulls onto the street again. His gaze keeps darting back to the rear view mirror and he watches Sam closely for any signs of distress. His son is out like the proverbial light, he doesn't move an inch, even starts snoring softly a few minutes into the drive. Something inside John slowly loosens up at the sight and he is finally able to take a deep breath.

They cross the town to get as much distance between them and that damned city. Sam's been asleep for about forty minutes and shows no signs of changing again when John finally spots a motel. He pulls over onto the parking lot, gets out of the car as quietly as he can and meets Bobby at his trunk. The older hunter is carrying a pile of rumpled clothes that look vaguely familiar.

"Sam okay?" He hands them over, including the shoes Sam had been wearing. John takes them, nodding at his friend.

"He's asleep. That friend of yours find anything?"

"She's looking into it, promised to call as soon as she does."

It's already taking way too long for them to solve this; he needs to know _now_ what it is so they can hunt it down. He nods at Bobby, turns back to the car and opens the backdoor. Sam doesn't stir which is another painfully obvious proof that he has reached the end of his strength. John puts the clothes down next to him and closes the door quietly. Bobby's already getting his own stuff from the trunk of his truck and they get inside to book their rooms. The guy at the desk doesn't spare them more than a cursory once over, hands over their keys and goes back to watch some late-night movie that involves too much screaming.

When John gets back to his car he's surprised to see Sam standing next to it. The blanket is still around his shoulders but he's wearing his jeans and his shoes. He's blinking tiredly in the dimly lit parking lot and has a hand on the roof of their car to keep himself upright as he stares into the darkness with a far-away look on his face.

Bobby quietly wishes them a good night and disappears into one of the rooms. John watches Sam for a moment, taking in the tired droop of his shoulders and the way he sways slightly and even though he seems far from okay or happy some of the worries disappear from his mind; Sam is able to stand on his own and doesn't seem to be injured. Whatever was happening back then seems to be over for now and they can catch a much-needed break.

"Bobby find anything yet?" Sam's voice is low and tired and he doesn't turn his head back to look at him. For once John doesn't sense any resentment from him, it seems to be one of the rare occasions where his son is too exhausted to fight.

"He's having someone look into it, maybe we'll know more in the morning."

"Okay."

John opens the trunk and pulls his duffle out, almost reaches for Sam's when the kid is suddenly next to him and takes his own bag out, slinging it across his shoulder. John locks the car and together they walk toward their room in what John would almost call companionable silence.

Maybe, for this night at least, they're getting a break from more than just what is out there.

* * *

[1] Quote from the UK TV series _Being Human_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Sooo... inspiration struck and I sat down and started to write. I hope this chapter is as interesting as the first seemed to be, but I think I gotta make a few notes before I post it:

1) I'm not sure if it was obvious in the prior chapter, but this story takes place 4 years after Sam has been cursed, if I had to put it into the official timeline I'd say it is around the time of when the pilot took place. (Which gets me the shaggy!Sam I love so much! :P )  
2) This story focuses on the relationship between _John _and _Sam_. Dean is a big part of it and I won't ignore him, he just isn't the focus of it and I hope people can still enjoy the story.  
3) This is slowly turning into a story (with a story-line and everything!) and I appreciate each and every hint at how to improve it, tell me what you like or what you didn't like so I can do it again or never speak of it again. ;)  
4) Once again BIG thanks to my **ghostfour** for her continuous support and letting me steal lines when my brain just freezes and won't form words anymore. Thank you, hun, without you... you know... ;) Oh, and I DON'T CARE ABOUT - *coughs*

Well, on with the story! Enjoy!

Dedicated to **ghostfour** .

* * *

Something's wrong, he can feel it.

The voicemail doesn't say anything unusual, his father's words are calm, relaxed, and matter-of-fact.

_Change of plans, Sun Down, Jefferson City, room 44. Be there at eleven hundred._

He tried to reach his brother after that, but Sam's cell goes to voicemail after a few rings. It has happened like that a billion times before and he's never felt queasy about it. Well, not much anyway.

It feels different this time, though, and he doesn't even have the slightest idea why. He sits in his own motel room for about fifteen minutes, debating, before he decides to call Bobby. After that he feels like he's hit the worst jackpot ever. Because Bobby _knows_ and Bobby tells him— something had been happening to Sam, something that had his brother changing back and forth like crazy for hours before they finally decided to leave the town. Sam's fine now, at least that's what Bobby tells him; Sam's fine and sleeping and he should be doing that, too.

They have a nest to clean the next day, a nest of vampires of all things. _Vampires_. When his father had called him to tell him about the nest he could have sworn he was pulling his leg, cause, really, he'd always thought there was no such thing. He'd half expected to hear Sam burst out laughing in the background, calling him a dumbass for buying the crap, but there had only been John and his instructions to "get here as soon as you can, we need to clean this nest." In all the years they've been hunting their Dad has never mentioned vampires. In fact, he'd smiled at the movies he and Sam used to watch as kids. When Dean had pushed, John had admitted he'd believed them to be extinct, that some guy named Elkins or something had killed the last remaining bloodsuckers years ago and that was it.

He'd been wrong about that; and now Dean had to face the fact that they are real, another supernatural myth coming to life literally in front of his own eyes. Still, Dean was looking forward to seeing that nest, and judging by the few things his father had told him about those bloodsuckers this was going to be just as much fun as tracking and killing his first Wendigo.

But, now? With the sudden change in plans? Suddenly this sucks.

He's still half a state away from them and he really should take a break, get some sleep and get up early in the morning to drive the rest of the way. He really, really should do that.

Problem is, he can't. He can't relax, he can't turn his thoughts off, he can't concentrate on the hilariously bad late-night movie, the exaggerated screaming, the gallons of fake blood dripping all over the place.

Bobby said they're okay, all three of them. There is no reason why he should be feeling like this, none at all.

He dials again.

"_This is Sam, leave me a_—"

"'lo?"

"Sam?"

"Dean, that you?" The sleep-heavy voice sends a cool relief through him, loosening something in his chest.

"Sorry, Sammy, didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"It's Sam." His brother yawns and sounds even sleepier after it. "You 'kay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. See you tomorrow."

"'ay."

Great, now he's feeling like a wuss on top of everything and that's just… wrong. It isn't the first time his father and his brother are working without him. The three of them have separated before, he's been on hunts by himself for two years now and he's really good at it. That last hunt had been a blast, brought to a quick end in record time; one rawhead fried extra crispy within three seconds (check), two frightened children got to safety and not eaten for lunch (check), the knight in shining armor—and with the shiniest steed ever—on his way out of town twenty minutes after the fire had died down (check).

Dean Winchester vs. the _things that go bump in the night_: 19 to 0. Yeee—freaking—haw.

He should be in a bar right now, maybe hustling some pool. Celebrating. Talking some chick out of her clothes on the backseat of his car. Or in the motel. Or, you know, wherever. He should not be thinking about packing his stuff and driving over there. It would be so late by the time he made it, that he wouldn't dare knock on their door. So it doesn't make sense at all to get up and leave the room and give the key back, and it makes even less sense to get inside his car and drive out of the parking lot.

Nope, sir, no sense at all.

Whatever.

* * *

Something filters through the fog surrounding his brain, it sounds like someone is knocking on glass. It doesn't stop. And it's right next to his ear. His neck is hurting and man, it's _cold _in here. Why is it so cold?

"-n? Come on, wake up, dude…"

Sam's voice sounds a little weird, kind of muffled. Dean blinks his eyes open and frowns when the first thing that comes into focus is the Impala's dashboard. That's odd… and uncomfortable.

"Dean."

His neck grumbles in protest when he rolls his head toward the voice. Something Sam-shaped is standing next to the car—the car?—bent over to peer down at him. His brother is wearing his black hoodie, the hood of it drawn far over his face to cover his forehead and most of his eyes. Dean blinks and there's a grin on Sam's lips, a teasing smile that instantly tickles his brother-senses awake. Sam is _laughing_ at him? What the—

"What are you doing out here?"

It takes his brain another moment to get back online and he finally faces the confusing realization that he has apparently been sleeping in his car. Well, he has done stranger things, really, but still…

"Dean, are you okay?"

Right, Sam, the voicemail, his father, the night-drive. He remembers arriving at the parking lot and watching the closed door of room no. 44 for some time and… pretty much nothing after that. Huh.

Sam's knocking on the glass again and by now his teasing smile has turned into a worried frown. Not that he can actually see Sam's eyebrows since they are hidden beneath the hood but the way his brother's mouth thins and his head cocks to the side tells him all he needs to know. And maybe he should let him know that everything is fine. He uncurls from where he has been slouching against the door and rubs his stiff neck for a moment, then reaches down to crank the window down a crack. "Hey."

"Hey…" Sam sounds just as bewildered as he felt moments ago.

"What time is it?" It's still dark outside, the only light coming from the streetlights next to the lot and the neon-sign of the motel; his inner clock says it has to be somewhat about 7 am.

"Six thirty." That early? Then why the hell is his stupid brother—Oh, right.

"You having nightmares again?"

Sam's exaggerated sigh tells him he's hit the bull's eye with his question and on top of that his brother really doesn't want to talk about it, thank you very much.

"I'm fine Dean." There, point proven. "What are you doing out here?"

Good question actually. "Fell asleep in the car, what do you think?"

"Why didn't you get a room? It's freezing out here…"

Now that Sam mentioned it the cold starts creeping up his body, finally encompassing his senses one by one. Before he had thought it was cold, by now he's positive it's actually _freezing_. He turns in his seat to give Sam a well-practiced _you-don't-say_-glare and rubs his hands together, not planning on answering that question.

"Where are you going?" he asks instead and stretches his tired limbs as best as he can in the cramped space behind the steering wheel. His right foot is slowly tingling its way back to life and he makes a face when various pins and needles start to attack his extremities. Sam is still watching him through the half-open window.

"I was going for a run, maybe get some coffee later. You want some?"

'Later' usually means at least one hour later, even more if Sam is really pissed at someth—some_one_ or needs to think something over. Dean's all for a good run to clear his head, he really is, but not at this hour and definitely not with these weather conditions. He hasn't really noticed it before but when his gaze sweeps across the parking lot he can see that it has started to rain at some point, not more than a light drizzle, but enough to affirm his decision to get himself a room and enjoy the warm comfort of a bed for the rest of the night. Or morning. Whatever. And coffee? Coffee sounds good, like heaven actually, but he wants to be asleep by the time Sam gets back and cold – or _freezing_ coffee is not what he prefers first thing in the morning.

"Nah, I'm good." He blinks to clear his vision and examines what he can see of Sam for a moment. He still can't see all of his face but the tight lines around Sam's mouth tell him his brother is not as relaxed as he pretends to be. He thinks he'll find the same pinched look on his father's face without having to search too hard for it. The question slips out before he can stop himself. "You okay?"

It's amazing how well he can read his brother's face without seeing the upper half of it. Right now, he knows, Sam has raised a puzzled eyebrow at him and if he keeps asking things like this it will turn into an annoyed frown.

"I'm fine, Dean," he repeats, stressing the word 'fine' in a way that tells him his brother is anything but, and might resort to scowling at him if pressed further. Oh well, it's too early for this anyway, he really wants that bed now. He closes the window without giving an answer and slides the door open, pushing Sam out of the way none too gently. He grins at the to be expected grumble from his brother, catches the door when Sam tries to push it closed before he can get out and peels himself out of the car. Sam backs off a step and looks him over for a second.

"You look like crap…"

He reaches out to cuff Sam upside his head before his brother can dodge him. "Right back at ya, bitch."

Sam snorts, playfully punches his shoulder with a little more force than necessary and turns, leaving the parking lot and disappearing in a side street. Dean watches him go, then shakes his head and casts a quick glance at room no. 44. The lights are still out, so having a talk with his father is out of the question. Which is pretty much okay with him, right now he just wants a warm bed and sleep for like a month.

* * *

Something wet hits him square in the face. His body snaps upright before he can find out if it's a warm or a cold something and it plops down onto his lap where it starts to soak through the flimsy excuse of a blanket. He blinks, searching the room for his attacker but his sight is too blurry to make out more than a dark shape at the foot of his bed. He tightens his grip on the hunting knife he keeps under his pillow for cases like this—or tries to—but it isn't there and he comes up empty-handed. And then there is a familiar sound from the dark shape and reality goes from slow-motion back to normal speed, his brain finally catching up. He blinks again and is rewarded with the view of his brother standing at the foot of his bed, toweling his wet hair with a Kermit-the-frog-green towel while studying him with a raised eyebrow.

"Man, you really are out of it. You okay?"

His gaze drops down to the cold something in his lap—black hoodie—and back up at Sam, torn between hurling the thing into that grinning, ugly mug or just lunging himself at him to wipe the stupid smirk off said face. He settles for flipping him the bird and turns to glance at the alarm clock since everything else requires more energy than he can find in himself at the moment. Ten fifteen. Aw, crap, he could have slept for another thirty minutes…

Sam goes over to the small table next to the window and a moment later something warm is pressed into his hand. It smells like coffee and he raises the plastic cup to his lips, sipping at it cautiously. It is coffee as far as he can tell and even though it's definitely not the best he's ever had, it will do. He leans back against the headboard and watches his brother as Sam sits down onto the chair next to the table. Whatever had happened the day before doesn't seem to be affecting Sam now, he doesn't appear to be sleepy or in pain or in any discomfort at all.

"Well, you sure don't look like anything happened last night."

Sam frowns. "What do you mean?"

Taking another sip he sits up straighter, stretching his legs. "Dad called me, and it sounded like something was up with you. You want to fill me in?"

Sam stops toweling his hair—not that it did him any good, he is still dripping water everywhere like a wet dog— and looks at his hands for a moment, before grabbing his own coffee and taking a sip. The next second he pulls a face and puts the cup back down like the Starbuck's coffee snob he is. Seriously, they could have bought a third car by now if they'd saved the money they'd spent on the expansive crap just to keep him happy.

"I don't really remember much of it," Sam says, "it forced me to turn and then it called me." There's more to it, he can hear it in Sam's voice.

"How could it force you to turn?"

"I don't know, it was like it was building up this… _pressure_ inside me and then I couldn't control it anymore and I just changed. I couldn't… it _hurt_ to resist, like my insides were on fire or something…" He still sounds pained, as if he is reliving the memory while he's telling it, and Dean's anxiety is ramped up a notch. He really doesn't like the sound of all of this.

"What did it say?"

"What?"

"When it called you, what did it say?"

Sam shrugs slightly, dropping the towel on the other flimsy chair. "It didn't really say anything, it was more a—a feeling… it wanted me to leave… to get… _there_."

"Get where?"

"I don't know."

He wonders if Sam told their father about this. His bet would be on no, he sure as hell didn't. "Could you still get there? Now?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't think so. I mean, I haven't changed since we got here, but… It's different…"

He breaks off and looks away, but not before Dean catches a flash of his eyes: Sam is _afraid_ to change. Not that he is a big fan of running around four-legged at any time but he usually just goes with it and doesn't complain. Much. Dean would even go as far as to claim that his brother actually enjoys his second nature as long as he doesn't _think_ about it; he seems to be kind of a seize-the-moment-wolf once he has turned. Not that he would ever say that to Sam's face, either furry or normal.

This is different, though; his brother is scared, something must have happened, more than he remembers or, which is more likely since it's _Sam_, something he doesn't want to talk about.

"It hurt so much…" Sam's voice is so soft and distant Dean could swear he isn't even aware of speaking. "It wanted me so badly to… get away… to get _there_… and when I couldn't leave—when Dad wouldn't let me go it _really_ started to hurt…"

Or maybe he does.

As much as Sam is obviously suffering because of it Dean feels ridiculously relieved. "So, whatever this is it isn't stronger than the curse?"

Sam shakes his head. "If Dad hadn't called me back… I think I would have just _gone_…"

It is said with such a longing in his voice that Dean feels his stomach clench in sympathy and something akin to fear. He knows Sam wants out, out of this trap, out of this life for more reasons than just the curse.

Dean isn't going to touch that subject with a ten-foot pole, though.

"Think it's the vampires?"

Sam snaps out of his reverie, looks at him. For a moment Dean thinks Sam is expecting him to say something else, something not having to do with vampires and he actually seems kind of hurt when he doesn't. But then Sam's shoulders slump dejectedly and he shrugs slightly, his face closing off.

"I don't know if they can do something like that. Bobby thinks it's something else but the only evidence about supernatural activity we could find all point toward the vamps."

He can't help it, he snorts, cause, seriously, _vampires_. Somehow it gets funnier every time he hears it.

Sam gets it and grins at him, fighting a little to sound amused. "Yeah, I know. They are real, Dad knows someone who's been hunting them for his whole life, he's like a vampire expert. Dad wants to check out the area before we go in."

"You're coming with us?"

Sam frowns, eyes narrowing a little. "Of course I am, why would I stay behind?" His voice takes on a warning tone; he's daring Dean to say the wrong thing, which, in this case, would be a valid reason to stay home.

And Sam knows it, Dean can see it in the way his brother won't meet his eyes, they both know with what has happened the day before it'd be safer for Sam to wait in the room and not risk being influenced (again) by whatever creature had almost overpowered him. But Sam won't make it easy on them; he can already see it in the stubborn set of his brother's shoulders and the tightly pressed lips, Sam won't back down from this, and before lunch there will be a heated discussion between Sam and their father about it. Dean can see it coming like a thunderhead on the horizon.

And he is _so_ going to not be a part of that fight. He drops the subject before Sam can start another _I-won't-stay-home-just-because-he-says-so-_argument, takes another sip of his coffee and asks the more important question right now:

"So, how do you kill a vampire?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Well, this is it, finally some insight into Sam. I'm nervous about this part, first of all I want to stress that I will never ever write something that could be considered John-bashing, so however he comes across in this part it is NOT because I think he is a bad father. I love that character and even though I really don't always agree with him, to me he will never be the bad father a lot of people see in him.

I'm not sure if I have to include a warning here, I've never written something that could be a sensitve topic so I don't know if what I did here is okay or already too hard for this rating. If it is, please tell me!

Once again HUGS and KISSES to my **Ghosty**, she helped me work on it until it made some sort of sense. Love you hun, thank you SO much!

* * *

When John comes out of the bathroom, Sam is there. He doesn't even get a warning in form of keys in the lock or a door opening, Sam is just there, sitting on his own bed, laptop on his knees, typing away on it. The kid's hair is wet, falling into his eyes, and the T-shirt he's wearing is damp with sweat. He doesn't look up when John enters the room, and that lets John know that his son is thinking about something. And John can't help thinking that, whatever it is, he doesn't want to hear it. Sam is _always_ thinking, his mind anywhere but in the here and now. Right now the only topic on both their minds should be the hunt.

He closes the door behind him and takes his shirt from the foot of his bed, hesitating when he sees the two brown plastic cups on the small table near the window. So Sam stopped for coffee. He went into a store, around civilians, even after everything that happened yesterday. Despite the automatic anger at the open break of the rules, he decides not to mention it (for now) and tries for casual.

"Still hot?" he asks and shrugs into his shirt, nodding his chin at the cups when Sam looks up from the machine and gives him a questioning look. Sam nods. The way his son doesn't speak, doesn't acknowledge him after the brief glance tells him the kid is still upset, even after the run, and being upset always makes Sam edgy and unfocused. They don't have time for this, damn it. Not now.

He gets one of the cups and sits down on his bed.

"Dean up already?" he asks, trying to delay the inevitable. He saw the Impala parking in front of one of the other rooms earlier and he knows Sam would have gone over to catch up with his brother.

An amused grin flashes across Sam's face before it goes blank again and he nods. "He has some kind of a hangover, spent the night in the car and didn't get a room."

John frowns, his oldest knows better than to get wasted the night before they go on a hunt. "He okay?"

Sam shrugs. "Just tired I think. He didn't even wake up when I snuck into his room. Got him some coffee, he should be fine."

John doesn't really like the sound of this, he needs Dean sharp and alert today. But Sam doesn't seem too concerned about it, so he lets it slide. He takes a sip of the almost hot enough coffee and leans down to put on his shoes.

"I need to be a part of this hunt."

The words are abrupt, and he's heard that tone before, the nervous, almost anxious quality Sam's voice has when he is about to say something he knows will piss him off. John looks up and realizes his son's posture matches his voice; Sam is curled tightly around his laptop, clutching it with a white-knuckled grip. His eyes are focused on John, following his every move, and when he looks up Sam shifts slightly on the bed, hunching his shoulders even more defensively as if he is preparing for an attack.

For a moment he is surprised at Sam's words, they haven't talked about him staying behind yet. And, truly, he doesn't want to leave his son behind and go on a vampire hunt one man down. But they have no idea what exactly happened the day before, for all they know the thing that had been after Sam could as well be watching them right now, hiding somewhere to wait for a chance to get to him again. He knows his son can look after himself, he is as much a skilled fighter as the rest of them, but still, after what it was doing to him with the forced changing, he will need help. Help they can't afford to slow down long enough to provide.

Sam can't go with them like this, not when he keeps changing uncontrollably and is barely in control of himself. John's spent almost the whole night thinking about what the next course of action should be and for some reason it irritates the heck out of him that Sam's bringing this topic up now, starting an argument before he had finally decided what they would do. He doesn't know how the kid has managed to figure out what has been on his mind but he does know his son won't be the one making the final decision about whether or not he is allowed to come with them.

"You know you can't go with us like this, you keep changing all the time," John says, words strained, aiming for a tone that makes it clear to Sam this will not be discussed now.

For just a moment it works, his son knows John is calling the shots on this one, he can see the resignation to that in the kid's eyes, the way Sam ducks his head marginally before he snaps it back up, staring right back at John, issuing a challenge without ever saying a word. Sam has made up his mind about something, that much John can tell, and the stubborn streak that's so uniquely part of him is coming out to play and shutting down his ability to think logically. Again.

"It didn't force me to change all the time…" Sam says, his voice surprisingly soft. "When I turned it didn't do anything but call me. I just… I couldn't stand to hear that voice all the time so… when I was me it didn't seem to talk to me so I kept changing back…"

That's a little detail Sam's failed to mention before and John can feel anger boiling up his throat. Sam willingly put himself through all those transformations, all this pain even though he didn't have to.

"You never told me that." He doesn't even try to conceal his irritation, feeling a twist of petty satisfaction when Sam drops his gaze and avoids meeting his eyes, even grimaces slightly at his words.

"It didn't really come up…" Sam looks up, eyes fixed on John's, determined. "Listen, Dad, I can't stay behind on this one, I need to go with you, you _need_ me."

Something in his voice makes John pause for a moment. "Sam—"

Sam is too tense to remain sitting. He gets off the bed, posture stiff and still defensive, hands raised. "I'll stay with you, okay?" He takes a step away from the bed, turns and faces John again, arms curling tight around his chest as if he is in pain. "I won't go with Dean this time, I'll stay at your side."

It's one of their basic rules, if the three of them are on a hunt Sam and Dean will team up and have each other's backs. As much as the curse has affected their lives, this is something it didn't change. As long as they are within hearing range with each other, they still pair off this way and with Dean going off alone so often in the last few months it was rarely an issue anymore. John knows how hard it is for Sam to give that up, even for just one hunt, he knows how much Sam had been looking forward to teaming up with his brother again. And still…

The bottom line is his son's arguing about an order. And he's not having that.

"That's enough, Sam."

Sam flinches, starts shaking his head. John can hear him take a deep breath, preparing his argument— but before he can say anything John starts talking, reclaiming the lead again. "We're not going after the vampires today."

Sam turns around, confused, frowning at him. "We're not?"

"No, me and Bobby were talking about it, we have to find out what's going on there. We're going after that 'thing' and I need you for that, you're the one who can lead us there."

Sam blinks, takes a step back. For a moment something like embarrassment flashes across his face which John doesn't really understand, but then Sam's face closes off completely. His clenched jaw is the only indication he is not at all happy with the situation but just like he always does he simply gives a short nod. "Okay."

'Okay' is not enough, not this time, he needs to know his son's head is in the game, there is no time for pouting or whatever else Sam is doing right now. John finds himself straightening and squaring his shoulders, staring right at his son when he snaps at him, "You think you can do this? Fight it? Not run away when it calls you?"

Sam almost snarls at him, raising his chin defiantly as he stares back, squaring his own shoulders unconsciously and that pisses John off; once again they are heading right toward another stand-off if they keep going like this. Sam has to realize what's at stake here.

"Be honest with me, Sam, can you do this? Can you hold back and stay with me? Cause I—_we'll_ be needing you out there, we don't know what we're up against."

Sam wants to answer right away, wants to get angry at him for even suggesting that he might not be strong enough to fight this. John can see the indignation written all over his face, in the way his whole body tenses and Sam almost opens his mouth to protest. And damn it, he needs an _honest_ answer, not some stubborn comeback that doesn't mean anything.

"Can you, Sam? Are you sure you want me to trust you with my life? With _Dean's_?"

It's a low blow, he knows that; Sam wouldn't do anything to risk Dean's safety, would stay in this room without ever going on a hunt with them ever again if it would keep his brother safe. It has the desired effect, though, and Sam clamps his mouth shut and takes a step back, a look of anguish flashing across his features. He takes a deep breath and John can see the wheels turning inside his head, can see that Sam really thinks about it, he can even see the moment Sam recalls the changing. Pain reflects in Sam's eyes for a second and John imagines hearing a soft, miserable whine.

And then Sam gives in, his shoulders drop and he looks at the floor, avoiding John's gaze.

"Take the leash."

He doesn't really whisper but his voice has lost most of its determination and anger, even though John can see Sam's hackles rise at the very thought of being collared and leashed like an ordinary dog. Something about Sam's reaction doesn't make sense to him, they've done this often enough, Sam posing as Dean's seeing-eye-dog or John's research and rescue or drug-sniffing dog has become part of their cover if they need to gain access to a crime scene. It was never Sam's first choice for a costume but he'd always gone with it and played his role. This sudden reservation is… weird.

And completely irrelevant as long as Sam sticks to the plan, as much as he wants to understand what exactly has Sam react like this, it's really not the appropriate time. They both need to suck it up and deal with the situation later, _after_ the hunt. If they want to get the thing and Sam wants to be a part of it then this is the way to go.

"Good, get yourself ready, we're leaving in ten."

Sam doesn't argue, doesn't say a word, he doesn't even move. He just looks at John, expression blank, waiting for him to turn away and leave the room to get his stuff from the bathroom. The moment John crosses the threshold he can hear the front door open and close and the tense presence that has been his son is gone.

And that's that, discussion time over. He needs to pack. Now.

* * *

As far as crappy mornings go this one hasn't disappointed him yet; he has a stiff neck from sleeping in his car (_bad idea, bad, bad idea_), a brother teasing him mercilessly about being a weirdo and not getting a room, and coffee that had gotten cold in the short time it had taken him to take a shower. Add to that, the way the sun that assaulted his eyes as soon as he stepped out of his room and you come up with a less than cheerful Winchester who just couldn't wait to kick some asses. And then go for breakfast.

Bobby is waiting outside, leaning against the trunk of his car, arms folded in front of his chest. Dean can see the older man grin as he yawns widely and scratches his neck for a moment, and he ignores it, acknowledging the gruff hunter with a nod. Damn the man for being so…_awake_.

"Rough night?" Bobby asks by way of greeting and his grin widens when Dean mumbles something under his breath and downs the rest of his coffee in one go, grimacing at the taste. Seriously, he's killed things that smelled better than this cold stuff tasted. _Days_ after they'd died.

Okay, so maybe he's a little grumpy.

He shuffles over to his friend and leans back against the trunk. "What's up, old man?"

He ignores the warning look the 'old man' shoots him.

"Heard about that rawhead you took care of. Good job, kid."

He can't help but smile at that. Yep, that hunt is definitely one he'd remember for a couple of days. It isn't that often that their jobs work out so well, with no surprise attacks or extra bruising so, yep, he's going to rub that in as often as he can. Not, you know, to show off or anything; but, _man_, it was such a textbook example of how it should work and he'd been on his own and everything…

"Dad tell you how he wants to do this?" He asks, one hand massaging the back of his neck.

Bobby stretches slightly and nods. "We've been talking about what happened to your brother, before he changed in my car yesterday Sam said that something was calling him, that it wanted him to get somewhere. John wants to check that out and I think he's right, it's too dangerous to go after the vamps now, whatever this is we need to find out what's after your brother first."

He feels himself stiffen at the reminder that Sam might be in danger and his gaze darts toward room 44. Sam had gone over to talk about something with their dad, and the fact that he can't hear yelling or doors slamming shut should probably reassure him that everything is all right. Unfortunately, he knows that both of them are well versed in the art of silent hand-to-hand combat and can take the other out without making a sound. Judging by the tense set of Sam's shoulders when he'd left his room earlier, that is definitely a probable scenario. Maybe he should go inside and find out if they need to hide a body…

Bobby's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. "Your dad wants to keep an eye on your brother, so I guess that means we're teaming up on this one." Bobby grins at him, nodding at the open trunk. "Get your stuff in there, son, we're leaving soon."

This is just great, no breakfast, no decent coffee, not even his own car. He eyes the older hunter for a moment and is about to suggest playing _rock-paper-scissors_ to settle the car-issue when suddenly the door to their dad's room opens and Sam appears. And, just like that, he forgets about how shitty the morning has been—one look at his brother tells him that something is very wrong; although Sam's impassive face doesn't give anything away at first glance, Dean is still able to read him like an open book and whatever he had been talking about with their father has left him seriously angry and upset. Lately it seems to be Sam's default setting after a talk with their old man, but that really doesn't make it any less worrying.

Dean waits for his brother to look up and acknowledge his presence, but Sam keeps his head down, gaze focused on the ground as he pulls the door shut behind him. Sam turns his back to the parking lot and starts walking down the path that leads behind the building, looking for all the worlds as if he is fleeing from something.

Which, of course, is exactly what he is doing. And, as usual, it's up to Dean to get his brother back in line since there is a friggin hunt they are supposed to be on and why the fuck does it always have to be him?—

_Stop it, man, not now. Focus on the hunt, get the stupid kid straightened out, and kick his ass later!_

"What's up with him?"

It takes him a second and a deep breath to pull himself together and he sighs wearily, meeting Bobby's curious gaze. "I don't know, maybe it's that time of the month again…"

Bobby snorts, turning back to his car, while Dean sighs again and starts walking toward where Sam has vanished around a corner. "We'll be right back," he says over his shoulder, quickening his steps until he is jogging. When he rounds the corner, he can see Sam crossing the empty lot at the back of the motel.

"Sam, stop, wait a second!"

Sam doesn't give any indication that he has heard him at all, but he does slow down when he realizes that the back lot is surrounded by a ten-foot chain link fence. It's a dead end, forcing him to come to a stop and Dean can finally catch up with him. He is about to grab a hold of his brother's arm when Sam growls at him, without turning his head.

"Leave me alone, Dean."

He sounds so pissed Dean actually hesitates for a moment, but when Sam changes his direction and goes back the way they came from Dean reaches out again, grabbing Sam's shoulder and turning him around. "Sam, _stop_!"

Dark eyes flash angrily at him and Sam immediately takes a step back, out of his reach. "Get off me."

Dean doesn't back off, though he doesn't reach out for him again. "What the hell happened in there?"

Sam takes another step back. "Nothing happened, just let me go."

"Sam—" Dean starts, but is interrupted by a commanding growl that would have made their father proud.

"We're leaving in ten, you better get ready." With that Sam turns around and starts walking again, though slower this time.

He has no idea what exactly happened, but he'll bet his ass it's something their father said. Because, as enigmatic as he likes to believe he is, this is a pattern Sam just can't seem to break, it's always something John said or did. Man, he doesn't want to deal with this, not now, not ten minutes before a hunt for something that's _after his brother. _Damn it, freakin' headstrong Sasquatchian jackass!

"So, what did he do that got your panties in a bunch this time?"

It's out of his mouth before he can stop himself. _Uh-oh, wrong move, don't encourage him_… He holds his breath without realizing it, waiting for his brother to explode in his face, accuse him of being on their dad's side again and _what the hell do you even care, Dean?_

But Sam doesn't go off, his steps falter for a second and his back tenses, but he doesn't whirl around, doesn't shout at him, doesn't even look at him. All he does is let his shoulders slump a fraction and keep his voice more or less resigned instead of accusing. "Nothing, it was nothing, not his fault… not this time."

"Since when is it not his fault?"

He hasn't meant to sound so reproachful but he can't really help himself and right now he is just sick of the fighting, the blaming, the never-ending fucking tension between them, he doesn't really care if he's barking up the wrong tree or if Sam even has a reason to be pissed—

"This isn't—it has nothing to do with—just… leave me alone, okay?" Sam more or less growls at him, his voice so tight it seems as if he has to force the words out of his throat which actually tells Dean more than he thinks Sam wants him to know. Despite him calling his brother an emo-bitch all the time, he knows Sam normally doesn't lose his cool about fighting matches with their father, this feels kind of… serious.

And there is only one topic that has this effect on his brother.

"It's the spell again, right?"

_He shoots, he scores, give the man his pink, stuffed teddy-bear!_ He is right, it _is_ the spell, there's no doubt about it, he can read it in the way Sam's shoulders slump even more and all the fight goes out of him. He even stops walking, his voice tired all of a sudden, like he is too exhausted to argue. "Dean, just—"

"Sam, you need to find a way to deal with it, okay? It's eating you up, I can see that, but right now—"

The shaggy head shakes slightly, then Sam finally turns around to face him and there is something in his eyes that hits Dean right where it hurts. This is serious, whatever has happened between them, whatever they'd been arguing about it is important and something that has shaken his brother to the core. Even though Sam tries to deny it. "I _am_ dealing with it. I'm _fine_, Dean."

"Sam—"

And suddenly Sam is talking, going from tired to shaken to _desperate_ in a few seconds until he is almost yelling at the end. "It's just this… it's all about control, you know? And how much I am _not_ in control, I don't have it anymore, this _thing_ is forcing me to change just because it wants to, it puts some crappy spell on me and I can't even decide where I want to go anymore! It just SUCKS!"

He stops, gasping in a breath, burning eyes trained on Dean's as he runs a shaky hand through his hair. It almost seems as if he can't stop talking now, throwing the words at Dean as if he is afraid he'll choke on them if he doesn't get them out.

"It just keeps getting worse, every turn I take there is something to remind me I'm no longer in control of my life! Do you have any idea what that feels like?"

Dean feels his throat close up in shock, he hasn't heard Sam talk like this since that one night in Detroit…

The curse isn't something they can change, so they never talk about it. It's there, it sucks beyond telling and he'd do everything to break it, but he can't… and so they just live with it until they find a way out. He knows Sam isn't happy with his situation, and that their dad isn't either. And sometimes, when he thinks about it, when he puts himself in Sam's shoes, he has no idea how his brother manages to get up every day and face the same problems over and over. To live, _every_ _day_, like that…

They never talk about it. Sam is pretty good about trying not to make it an issue… until now. Sam only complained once, only let it break him down that one time, and he's not brought it up since– No, he's not going there, he can't, the memories are still too painful, even after all those years, he never wanted to see Sam like that again, defeated, lost, _broken_…

Against his will he feels his breath leaving his lungs, it literally takes his breath away to remember that night, he barely has enough air left to choke out his brother's name.

"Sam—"

But Sam doesn't listen, he shakes his head at him, hands raised to push him away if he gets too close. "You don't, Dean, 'cause you can leave. _You_ can go out, go for a beer, go wherever you want— you don't have to be afraid of turning into some fucking animal that either attacks people or just runs away…"

Sam stops. He clearly hasn't meant to talk about this and he actually takes a step back, as if more distance between them can make the words disappear. Already Dean can see Sam trying to find a way out of this, can almost hear his brain working overtime to come up with something to change the topic. But Dean is having none of that, they've started this now and he is going to get to the heart of this, he really wants to get it now, he _needs_ to know.

"Talk to me, man. What happened in there?"

Sam's gaze falls to the ground and stays there, his eyes slowly losing their focus as he just stares down. It suddenly strikes Dean how worn he looks, his face twisted into a tired grimace that makes him look so much older than his twenty-two years. He barely manages not to flinch back in surprise when Sam starts talking, voice so soft he can barely hear him over the sound of the traffic noise behind them.

"I—this thing—when it calls me—he—Dad thinks it might be able to break the control-spell—and then I won't be able to resist…"

He has a feeling he knows where this is going and there is nothing he can do about it, he feels so fucking helpless he can't stop himself. He wants to reach out, offer some kind of comfort, but he doesn't, he knows it would freak both of them out. "Sammy…"

Sam's gaze crawls back up to his face and he just looks at him, eyes distant and so awfully hopeless it just breaks his heart. "And you know what? He's right, he's right about that, I won't be able to resist then—and there goes my control again." He slowly shakes his head, his eyes snapping back to the floor when he continues in a thick voice, "It feels wrong… Not having control of my body, of my _self_. Letting Dad take control _over_ me because I can't…. And you know what? He doesn't even care what my problem is…"

"You know that's not true." It sounds lame, even to Dean; he knows what their father would say if Sam confronted him with this, hell he'd even tried to use the same mantra on him earlier. He isn't surprised when his brother doesn't buy it, just looks at him with those blank eyes, shaking his head slightly as he grins faintly.

"Do I? Cause, you know, he didn't even ask, he never thought about what this fucking hunt would mean for me."

No, John wouldn't waste time on that, it would never occur to him to ask about something like this. Because it is irrelevant, it doesn't help them on the hunt, it doesn't do anything but slow them down and allow the bad guys to get away. And they couldn't have that…

"You know what the worst part about it is?" Sam is watching him now, a sad smile playing at his lips and Dean wants to snap at him that he doesn't want to know because he isn't sure he can deal with it. He knows his brother, he knows where this is going and he's been there, done that and he never wanted to do it again. Ever.

But once again Sam doesn't stop, doesn't hold back, seems to be determined to get it all out in the open this time. "I don't even care anymore, I just want that thing gone, I want this over."

Dean flinches at the emotionless tone, he knows what Sam is really saying but he just can't listen to that, he can't deal with it, not now, not because of the hunt or some macho no-chick-flick reason but simply because he can't, he just isn't able to do this.

And so he deliberately misunderstands him, turns their conversation into the direction he knows isn't foremost on Sam's mind. He makes a point of staring determinedly at his brother when he talks, willing the truth away by sheer stubbornness. "It will be over soon, okay? We're gonna hunt that sucker down and then—"

He isn't really surprised that it doesn't work, that Sam recognizes his tactic and jumps right in, stopping him with a raised hand, some of the desperate anger from before returning to his tired eyes. "Don't you get it, Dean? It will _never_ be over!"

Of course he gets it and of course Sam is right. But he is not going _there_ now, he can be just as stubborn as his brother about this and he won't budge an inch. "We've been over this before, this is only temporary, we're gonna find a way to—"

Sam throws his hand in the air, shaking his head in disbelief. "Stop, Dean, stop right there!" He starts walking toward Dean, body coiled tight as if he is about to jump at him and claw his words into Dean's chest. "It's been _temporary_ for four years now, Dean! We've followed every lead we could find! Bobby doesn't know shit about this and he couldn't find anybody who does in four years! Don't you think if there was something that could help we'd have found it by now?"

He's yelling now, tightening his fists against his side as he waits a second for his words to sink in, then advances further. "Face it, Dean, I'm not getting out of it, there's no way to reverse this 'cause she is dead! She's _dead_! She was the only one who could have done something about it and she's gone. I'm stuck like this, there is no way out..."

And there it is, the ugly truth, the fact they somehow manage to ignore, to deny every day. Sam is right and they all know it. There is no way out; the witch is dead and the curse she'd woven over his brother had been fueled with her very essence, she'd poured every bit of magic into her dying words. And a spell this strong, cast by a desperate witch in her death-throes is about the most powerful enchantment they have ever come across. She was the only one who could have attempted to lift it. And even then it would have been highly unlikely she could have broken it.

And they know. _Sam_ knows, and Sam has to live with it, every single day. And now he can see that same look in Sam's eye, the flat, desperate gleam from Detroit and Sam promised him, he'd fucking _sworn_ to him he wouldn't—

He is on his brother in a second, moving so fast Sam never has a chance to dodge him. He grabs his brother's shirt in a ripping grip and surges forward, stumbling them against the chain link fence behind them, throwing Sam against it with a force that drives the air out of his brother's lungs. "You promised me you wouldn't—"

His voice fails him, anger, desperation—_fear_—clawing at his throat as he remembers Detroit, remembers the words Sam had choked out in the darkness of their room, how his world had come crashing down with them. _I can't live like this, Dean, please don't make me live like this_ and Sam had sworn, the bastard had _sworn_ he wouldn't give up, he'd—

"Dean." Sam's voice cuts through the panicked thoughts and he blinks slowly, his eyes taking a moment to focus on the face in front of him. Sam is looking at him, studying him in a way that tells him his brother is seeing right through him, reading something in him Dean is pretty sure he doesn't want to be read. The next second Sam seems to deflate and he leans back, his hands covering Dean's where they are still pushing him back into the fence. His body is slowly relaxing in Dean's grip and he doesn't push back, doesn't fight against him, there's only his voice, low and almost soothing. "I won't, okay? I'm not going… to do anything."

He'd made him promise the exact same thing back then, he'd made him swear an oath that Sam wouldn't lose his faith in them, that he would go on with them, fight with them until they found the solution, the one thing that would work because there just had to be something they could do, there had to be…

"Come on, man, get off me, it's okay, _I'm_ okay, you hear me?"

And isn't that fucking ironic? How the hell does he do that? Where does Sam find the strength to comfort _him_ after all this? He shouldn't have to do this, after he's just poured his heart out to Dean, it should be him, doing… saying _something_ to make him feel better, to make him see he isn't alone in this…

Except that he is, Sam is alone in this, when it really comes down to it Sam is the one who can't do anything but go with it and try to find a reason to live.

Oh God.

"Look, Sam, I know this is hard… and we'll find—something…" He knows it's a lie, he knows they won't find anything, he knows there is no way out but the words just won't stop, he wants his brother to be okay, he needs him to be all right, to see this through with them because… damn it, he just needs him. He doesn't want—he just can't lose him, it's just not happening, no way.

"Dean, stop, okay?" Sam is still staring at him. "It's okay, I'm fine, I swear I won't… I won't do anything stupid, okay?"

Slowly, the words filter into his brain, he's never heard his brother use the word _okay_ so often and right now he just wants to believe that it's true… Oh _god_, he can't do this…

"Come on, man, there's a hunt waiting, Dad needs y— he needs _us_ focused…" Sam pats his hand awkwardly, offering him a way out, taking a step back from their conversation so that Dean can back off and get himself together and right now he both loves and hates him for it. He finds himself nodding through a daze of remembered misery and fear for his brother's safety—_life_.

"Yeah, okay. I… uhm… I'm with Bobby, he… I think I'm gonna go help him…"

He breaks off, feeling way too awkward and horribly exposed and hating himself for it. So not cool.

Sam gives him some sort of a tired smile and picks himself off the fence, straightening his shirt as he nods slowly. "Yeah, okay, I'll be there in a minute."

Dean gives him a last glance and then forces himself to turn and walk away, trying desperately to drown out the memory of Sam's tear-filled voice from two years ago. _Please, Dean, don't make me live like this…_

He walks back toward the cars, leaving his damaged brother behind because he can't do anything. He can't help. And that sucks. And as he sees Bobby shifting gear into the trunk of his beat-up piece of shit car, he thinks his first thoughts are still correct: this morning has been _really_ crappy.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **So this is the next part, some Bobby-pov. It was interesting and fun to write it, I like the old man a lot, love the outsider-perspective he's brought into this. Enjoy!

* * *

Working with the Winchesters always reminds him why he prefers to hunt alone. He's worked with them on occasion and they are not _bad_ hunters, not at all. In fact, he admits silently to himself as he waits for them outside the motel rooms, he does feel safer every time he knows one of them has his back. And then there is this talent they have of getting the job done no matter how bad the odds are. They are resourceful and seem to have an uncanny insight into supernatural forces other hunters haven't shown yet.

His sympathy for them ends exactly where their family issues begin, though. You never know what you're getting into when you agree to work with them. At least one of them will always be pissed at the others. There's tension in the air every single time he sees them and, frankly, he just isn't good enough at reading other people to always be aware of which topic might make everything worse. Over the years he's come up with a few guidelines to make dealing with the Winchesters a little easier. It usually helps never to mention the curse; don't remind John that he isn't the only one to bark orders and expect to have them obeyed; and never get involved in one of the prank wars.

Unfortunately, this usually only gets you through the first few minutes, and it's no different this time; all three of them are ridiculously worked up over something and can't seem to come down. He doesn't know what has them so edgy. He hopes it doesn't have to do anything with the hunt, though and in that case he expects John to fill him in. He knows that might be a little too naïve on his part since he is very familiar with his friend's tendency to 'forget' giving you all the necessary details. And still, this hunt is about one of John's kids and even the elusive John Winchester wouldn't leave out important information about it.

He and Dean had seen the way how Sam had left their motel room earlier that morning, and he'd watched the elder brother go after him to talk to him. A few minutes later he'd watched again how Dean had come back in a decidedly unhappy mood he had been trying to deny ever since. The moment John had excited the motel room Sam had joined them at the cars, got into the Truck without sparing a glance at either of them and then they'd been on the road.

A few minutes into the drive he had asked Dean if the kid was okay, and received a meaningless joke about some of Sam's decidedly more female qualities. He'd not put much effort into convincing Dean that he was not seeing the diversion for what it was. He had left it at that though. Dean wouldn't talk to him any more than John would, and he was actually grateful for it. He did, however, switch his radio to some country music station he knew would annoy the hell out of Dean just for the fun of it, gave the kid some dose of his own medicine—_driver picks the music, boy_—and enjoyed the scowling for the rest of the drive.

Forty minutes later John pulls over onto the emergency lane and finally stops.

"This is it?" Dean asks, looking around the place and Bobby glances at the surroundings briefly before he nods. This is the place where Sam had gone crazy.

They get out of the car and Bobby hesitates for a second. He remembers the evening before, the way Sam had been cowering on the ground and trembling so hard beneath his hand he had been afraid the wolf would suffer a heart-attack. He expects Sam to be equally miserable right now and is actually surprised to see the boy standing next to John's truck in human form, staring off into the woods in front of them. The kid's brows are drawn into a puzzled frown and his head is tilted to the side as if he is listening into the forest.

John is standing on his side of the car, dark eyes fixed on Sam, keeping his distance so he doesn't distract him from whatever the kid is doing. John is tense, even though the seemingly relaxed posture would suggest otherwise to any observer, his deep voice talking softly. He is asking a question and Sam shrugs slightly, eyes flitting to his father for a moment before they go back to the forest.

And then the hunt ends before it has started.

"It's gone," Sam says, stepping away from the car. "There's nothing—I don't feel anything, it's just… it's gone."

Sam finally turns to them, eyebrows raised in confusion. Bobby eyes the trees behind him suspiciously, scanning the tall trunks for any kind of movement. They look as peaceful as an ordinary forest next to a highway can look, there even is a soft breeze playing with the tops, causing them to sway slowly.

"What now?"

He steps around his car and looks at John who is still studying his youngest. Bobby might not be an expert at reading the members of this family but this expression, this frown he can identify easily; this hunt is not going down the way they'd planned it and nothing pisses John Winchester off more than supernatural creatures not playing by his rules. John doesn't answer right away and Dean moves forward, taking a step toward his father and the car.

"What do you think, dad?" Dean asks, looking expectantly at him.

It's Sam who speaks after another moment of tense silence. "It's gone, Dean…" he mumbles quietly, eyes dancing nervously between Dean and the forest.

"So what?" Dean snaps, glaring first at John, then at Sam. The way his shoulders bunch makes it easy to see that he is nervous, worried, itching to do something. "Are we just going to sit here with our thumps up our asses, or what?"

Sam sighs softly, glancing at his brother. "There's no trail to pick up, Dean… I thought when we got back here I'd feel the—it—this _pull_ again and we could follow it to wherever this thing is hiding, but it's gone, it's just… quiet."

Bobby can hear the defensive edge to the kid's tone, can see the way Sam is shooting looks at John, waiting for the inevitable explosion. He can see the blame in Dean's eyes as he stares at his brother, and for a second, Bobby feels his own ire build. "Look, if it's gone, it's gone. Sam can't change that."

He feels Dean's anger shift toward him, though he'd have to be deaf to not hear the helpless worry beneath the hissed words, "I know that, but there's gotta be something we can do!"

Bobby deliberately stays silent, looking back at Dean until the young man winces slightly and drops his gaze, backing down and running a hand over his face as he tries to get a grip on his emotions. Behind him Sam sighs again, sagging against the car, his whole body projecting defeat. And that is just… wrong. It's not like the kid has control over any of this, it's not his fault, but he's obviously feeling every word his brother spits as an accusation.

Bobby doesn't really know how, but suddenly he is in the middle of their little family drama and he finds himself taking the boy's side, rolling his eyes at himself even as he glares at John. "You want to say something?"

John turns slightly and looks over at him, carefully keeping his eyes off either of his sons. "We have no way of finding it as long as we have no trail."

"Genius observation there." The rebellious attitude is rubbing off on him faster than he can keep his mouth shut. "What now?"

John glares at him and Bobby knows why— you don't snap at him like this in front of his boys, he doesn't react well to that.

Well, he doesn't give a shit if John's ego is bruised. They have a hunt, one way or another.

"Okay, fine. One problem solved; Sam won't be flipping back and forth. And while you guys can look for whatever caused it all _later_, the vamps are still snacking on the locals. I say we count our blessing and hunt the bastards we _can_ find."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean wince at his words and when he looks at him he can see a sudden reluctance in his eyes which is followed by an almost panicked glance at his brother. And who the hell knows where that came from, but Bobby just knows he is so deep into the minefield of 'family' that he is afraid to move. Dean opens his mouth, looking at their father, but the words don't come, whatever he wants to say doesn't make it over his lips and Bobby can barely hold back a sigh. That boy has never been able to speak up when his dad was around, not for himself… or for his brother. But that is not an issue he feels the need to resolve. This is all between the Winchesters, and not his concern.

John is still glaring at him, but a sudden movement snaps Bobby's attention to the figure behind him: Sam is towering behind his father, body tense and rigid as his narrowed eyes try to burn a hole into John's neck. His lips are pulled back into a very _wolfish_ snarl which twists his tense features into an animalistic grimace. For a second there is nothing human left in his eyes and Bobby feels his stomach twist at the fury he can read in them.

John sees Bobby's alarmed look and whirls around in a flash, hands bringing up his weapon in a fast movement as he aims at the threat behind his back. At his son.

"Dad, _stop!_" Dean's panicked shout causes Bobby to jump in surprise and his hand is on the gun at his side before he can stop it. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath as he watches the older brother rush over to his father's side.

Sam, on the other hand, doesn't flinch at all, doesn't back down, his body vibrating with tension as his shoulders flex. He looks about ready to jump at his father.

John lowers his gun as soon as he recognizes the 'threat', but despite the low growl that rumbles through Sam's chest at the movement, the oldest Winchester doesn't back down an inch, doesn't seem to be phased at all at Sam's obvious fury. Bobby can even hear in his voice how John rolls his eyes in annoyance as he snaps at Sam. "For God's sake, Sam, back _off_, we don't need this now!"

The growling immediately stops and Sam takes one, two steps back. But the angry fire burning in his eyes doesn't lose its intensity and he keeps staring at John.

Who stares right back.

This is getting them nowhere, they are just riling each other up to the point where one of them will inevitably snap; they all have been there, done that and sworn to never let it happen again. And, because all Winchester men are stubborn idjits, they keep forgetting it every single time something threatens to unbalance their shaky truce.

Bobby had figured it out after spending four days in their company during a hunt almost three years ago; ever since the curse, it had become increasingly hard for Sam to keep his emotions under control in a tense situation. Bobby had the sneaking suspicion that the 'other' side of Sam picked up on the atmosphere of an argument the way wild animals would sense if people wanted to harm them or not. Although with Sam it only seemed to be about John. The more his father gets worked up in any given situation, the more Sam gets worked up— he never gets like this when he is fighting with Dean.

And John trying to win this staring contest is not going to solve anything, it's only making matters worse.

Enough of this.

He takes a step toward them and is about to move into the crossfire, but suddenly John retreats, and for a moment Bobby foolishly believes this little show of dominance could actually end on a forgiving note.

"_Get in the car_. We've got a nest to burn out."

John turns abruptly and stalks toward the driver's side. Sam jerks as if he has been slapped and his whole body goes rigid, eyes closing and jaw clenching as he visibly fights to ignore the command's pull – something even Bobby can _feel_ deep down in his bones, a shiver that tingles along his spine. It feels like the edges of something big, something powerful—_magical_, brushing his awareness.

Sam is getting better at resisting, for the first time ever, Bobby sees him taking a deep breath and tightening his fists so hard his fingernails have to be biting into his palms before he turns around and approaches the car.

Dean watches him go, wincing slightly when Sam slams the door shut after getting in. The next second John pulls back onto the street, tires screeching angrily across the pavement as they speed off.

"_Fuck!_" Dean's curse echoes in the small clearing and for a moment he just stands there, breathing heavily through his nose as he watches the truck disappear in the distance.

This isn't his fight. Bobby watches Dean for a moment and gets into his car. Dean follows him a moment later, eyes still fixed on the road where they can see the truck getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

They drive in silence, Dean retreating into a worried scowl while Bobby replays the confrontation in his mind, remembering a similar situation that had almost ended in a tragedy about two years ago.

* * *

… _two years earlier…_

_When he opened his backdoor he could hear familiar, loud voices in the distance. He left the house, following the angry shouting to his junkyard. Sure enough, it was John and Dean, yelling at each other at the top of their lungs. Bobby wasn't close enough yet to make out what they were arguing about and he didn't really care. He'd come out to tell them he'd just had a call about the information they needed for their latest case and he didn't really have the time (or the nerve) for another of their hissy fits. _

_John and Dean were facing each other, well into each other's personal space. Both of them were standing rigidly, pushing at the other with their hands if they got too close, and even from where Bobby was standing he could see the narrowed eyes in their reddened faces. It wasn't often that the two of them really got at each other, the loud shouting and arguing was usually reserved for John and his other son, but once he and Dean got going there was no way of stopping them and getting between them was a hopeless endeavor. _

_What neither of them was obviously aware of was the canine shadow crouching in the shade of an old, rusty pick-up truck a little to their left. It wasn't often Bobby got to see Sam in this form, the kid usually made damn sure people, even him, wouldn't see him like that if he could help it. So the rare sight of a wolf in his yard, even if it was a cursed Sam, made Bobby stop in his tracks and just watch him for a moment. _

_It was not a happy sight. Bobby remembered how he had once watched Sam early in the morning when John and Dean had still been asleep. He'd caught a shaggy silhouette stalking his yard out of the corner of his eye on his way to the coffee machine: Sam had moved as if he owned the place, completely relaxed and at ease, furry ears pricking curiously at every sound he heard while his nose had never stopped sniffing this way and that. The wild eyes had watched his surroundings attentively, regarding the different tools of Bobby's work area with the same clueless puzzlement Sam had reserved for them when he was human. It had been a peaceful, yet surreal picture; his weird, quiet version of a Disney-moment and Bobby had kept still and hadn't moved, just watching the kid-wolf enjoying himself in the warm morning sun. _

_The wolf he saw now was no longer having fun. He couldn't see all of his body but he looked to be just as tense as his brother and father, eyes trained on them as their voices grew ever louder, harder. It was then that Bobby noticed it, even from the distance— it wasn't both of them Sam was staring at, it was John. Whenever the oldest Winchester moved or raised his voice, the wolf moved with him, his ears slowly pushing down to the side while his hackles rose, lips peeling back as he started to snarl. He never stopped staring at John, slowly stalked closer toward his father with stiff movements and the closer he got the lower his body sank, until he finally stopped in a low crouch behind John, right in his blind spot where he wouldn't be seen._

_They stayed like this for a moment, until Dean finally noticed the tense animal and pointed at Sam, shouting something at John that must have been an accusation. John turned slightly and glared down at Sam, turned back to Dean and his voice rose, not even stopping when a moment later Sam joined the yelling and started to bark at them, angry puffs of air that were choked off at the end as he started to circle them nervously. Even from where he was standing in the distance Bobby could literally feel the tension climbing higher and higher, watching how John roughly pushed Dean back, turned and snapped something which had the wolf drop to the ground immediately, body tense and coiled, muscled legs bunching up, ready to leap. But he didn't move. _

_Dean looked at Sam, back at his father and was in John's space again a second later, his angry voice finally loud enough for Bobby to hear._

"_Stop treating him like that!"_

_Sam jumped off the ground faster than the eye could see, lunging toward Dean in one fluid motion but recoiling short of attacking him, as if he'd hit an invisible wall. He instantly backed up, head once again dropping low as he told them with every hair on his body that he was _pissed_ at them._

_Bobby never found out why he did it, all he would remember later was that he'd yelled something at them at the top of his lungs._

_And a second later he was on the ground, a hundred and twenty pounds of pissed off, snarling, snapping wolf on top of him, pressing him down. He remembered teeth, two rows of perfectly white, unbelievably sharp fangs snapping shut inches away from his face, razor-sharp claws digging into the soft skin at his chest. It was only his reflexes and having been around and training dogs himself that had him react instantly, bringing up his arm over his face and pushing the big head away from his neck. Before he could do more than drag in a shuddering breath, John's voice cut through the air._

"_SAM, get _off_ him!"_

_A moment later the weight on his chest was gone and Bobby could breathe again. And he did, closing his eyes for a moment before he blinked them open and brought Dean's worried face into focus. _

"_You okay?"_

_Bobby sat up, brushing the dirt off his clothes. He looked around, feeling a little dazed. Dean was crouching next to him, hand extended to help him get to his feet. John was behind Dean, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. _

_And then there was Sam: Still all furry and four-legged he was cowering on the ground, a little behind John. Wide, miserable eyes were staring at Bobby, ears plastered to his skull, head held low, almost skimming the ground. His body was shaking uncontrollably and he had his tail tucked in between his legs, trying to make himself appear small and harmless. He wouldn't meet anyone's eyes, dropped his gaze as soon as Bobby looked at him. He even went so far as to roll on his back in a gesture of absolute submission. Bobby had _never_ seen him act like this, he was basically pissing his pants in front of his entire family and one glance at Sam's eyes told him the kid was completely aware of it, shocked to the core and trapped in this form—_helpless_— and he simply didn't know what else to do._

_There was an awkward silence and Bobby finally got to his feet, brushing his clothes again._

"_Mitchell called, he found the banishing-spell."_

_John nodded slowly, threw a glare at Dean, the 'we'll talk about this later' all too clear in his eyes before he turned abruptly and stalked off. Dean watched him go, ran a frustrated hand over his mouth and sighed softly, shaking his head before looking at Bobby._

"_You need anything from the town?"_

_Bobby shook his head, watching as Dean slowly walked toward the Impala._

_When he looked back at where Sam had been crouching the wolf was gone and Bobby found himself standing alone in the middle of his junkyard._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** So here's what happened: I had that image in my head, sat down and wrote it, gave it to my beta and she, being the awesome mind-reader that she is, re-worded everything and put my thoughts into words. I love you so much for it, hun, you have no idea, I would never have finished this without you! This gives a little insight into the curse that changed their lives, hope you enjoy!

**A/N 2**: I've decided to post missing scenes to this story in a seperate document, you can find that on my author's page, it's called "Tales of the pack".

Betaed by the wonderful **Ghost**!

* * *

Soft rustling in the bushes to his right draws John's attention to a small clearing.

A quick flash of grey fur and two furry ears pricked in his direction appear. Sam stays visible for a moment, golden-brown eyes staring at him through the leaves, waiting for John to acknowledge his location before the head disappears and what he can see of the shaggy body slinks back into the shadows of the trees. Everything around him falls silent again.

The muddy path in front of him sneaks through the forest and he follows it, hand playing absentmindedly with the snap of the leash draped over his shoulders. To anyone watching he would appear to be on his own, a lone wanderer, no indication at all that his son is covering his back. That, after everything that happened on the side of the road and all the physical pain and tension of the last day, Sam is still focused enough on the hunt to remember their rules and follow him. For a moment he is proud of him, relieved that Sam has grown up enough to be able to put stuff aside and deal with it later.

And apparently he's better at it than his old man since John's thoughts insist on flashing back to the moment the hunt had gone all wrong, the moment, when Sam had told them he couldn't sense the damned thing anymore. They couldn't hunt what they couldn't find and without Sam's sensing it, they couldn't get even a hint of a direction, let alone pick up a trail.

And that had scared him, knowing something was out there, that something could be watching them at this very moment, that it could _attack_ them at any time, and that he had no way of knowing, no way of keeping his son _safe_. It set his teeth on edge, and he'd missed most of the conversation with Bobby until Bobby had stepped in and sent what was left of his nerves to join his teeth. And it had pissed him off, what Bobby had said, _how_ he'd said it; being such a smart-ass. He'd tried to control the anger, but Bobby had been intentionally pushing his buttons, and it made him furious that the old man could still do that after all these years. So his self-control had snapped… and he'd pulled Sam right over the edge with him

Again.

Sam needed to get better at this. Oh, Sam always tried hard to keep that aspect of the spell under control; the part that kept him attuned to his 'master's' moods. But the truth was that Sam couldn't totally block them, any more than he could block the commands. And he couldn't stop them from affecting his own reactions. He knows that Sam fights against them every second of every day, but more often than not, John would find himself in the middle of an argument with Sam breathing down his neck, growling and fixing him with wild eyes, on the edge of letting go and giving in and letting the beast finally attack the source of its distress. And as much as he knows it's not Sam's fault, it's hard not to blame the kid for how much anger and pain that fill the eyes that turn in his direction

They both know that Sam can't hurt him; in either form. No matter how much the beast desires it. He couldn't attack him even if his life depended on it.

And it is John's fault.

Four years ago the witch had turned Sam into a wolf, an animal, with no sense of his original self left; not even the slightest flicker of awareness of the person he'd once been. His son, his _boy_, had faded out, given way to that animal. And after each turning, it seemed like less and less of _Sam_ made it back.

They all knew Sam couldn't go on that way. John would never forget the first months when the wolf would simply take off whenever Sam had been forced through a change, run away from them, following his natural instincts to get as far away from humans as he could – the way his blood ran cold as the sleek grey shape disappeared into the night and he'd been left wondering if they'd ever see Sam again. The terror that Sam would just be gone one day, waking up too lost to find his way back to them, or hurt because the wolf lost a fight with a car, or a train, or another wolf. The dread of those long nights still shuddered John at odd times. And he'd had to find a way to fix it. The spell John had found two long months later had seemed like a workable solution. It put Sam back into control, it made sure that, even in his animal form, it was _Sam_, he was still able to do what he wanted.

At least as long as he could ignore the wolfish instincts and keep the wolf back. And Sam had fought hard to be strong enough, not to give in to whatever his new senses were telling him.

And it had worked for a few nights. Giving Sam some peace.

Until John ordered him to come back and Sam stopped in his tracks. Each and every time.

That was part of the control spell, too. A sometimes useful side-effect, no matter what Sam thought. Sam was no longer able to ignore a direct order. The wolf, or rather his body, was bound to John. The beast, and Sam too, would obey his commands without hesitating. The original spell John had found had been used by witches and shamans throughout the centuries to call their familiars or spirit guides to their sides and create a bond with them. It had been rewritten for their special situation and it worked— it even saved their lives a couple of times.

But they paid a price for it. The effects of the spell had driven Sam away from him, farther then he'd ever thought possible. The more he ordered Sam to stay, to heel, to behave, the more Sam retreated from him. Their relationship, which had never been the best to begin with, had pretty much crumbled to dust now. He'd lost his son, though, ironically, Sam hadn't been able to leave his side for four years now.

The fucking witch who had started all this, she'd known they were coming for her. She'd known they would stop her. That they would kill her. That's what they did, and they faced her kind for a living. Stopping that kind of corrupt magic was what their lives were all about.

And she'd used that knowledge against them; she'd changed the curse so it would do the most damage possible to them. It wouldn't just turn Sam into a wolf, oh no. That would have been too easy. No, she'd created a trigger for the conditions under which the curse would activate: Whenever Sam was in the presence of a supernatural being or came across a magical effect of any kind the curse would hit and he would transform, rendering him pretty much useless as a hunter.

At first.

Over the years they'd adapted.

Sam couldn't stop the change, but he had found a way to delay the impulse for a few moments so that he could at least try to hide somewhere close by and wouldn't switch forms in the middle of the street anymore. He learned. Eventually he never went into a hunt in his human form anymore, he stayed wolf until it was over so he wouldn't be defenseless during the time his body was forced to undergo the transformation. They had developed their own communication; it was all about body language now. John had learned to read the wolf like an open book, every flick of his ears, every twist of his nose, every possible way he would hold his tail. And he was good at it, almost as good as Sam could read him now. They barely needed words anymore. And, strangely enough, they worked better together _now_ then they ever had before.

Outside their hunts, though, it is tearing them apart. Both of them. They couldn't talk anymore, not even the tense, yet somehow civil conversations they'd had before the curse. Most of the time Sam was so tense he exploded at the weirdest things John said. He was always bitchy, always moody in a way John had never seen his son before. It often would get so bad that John would just snap, barking an order at Sam without thought: _shut the fuck up, Sam! _Just to make him stop shouting, just to make him quit, just for a second. And the silence that followed would be instant and hollow and aching. And Sam would be glaring at him with hurt accusation in his eyes, his forced quiet screaming louder at John than his angry words ever could.

And still, whatever the spell does to them, however it drives them apart and rips its claws into their lives, it is still the one reason Sam is still alive, still with them. He would be gone now; the wolf would have taken off and just disappeared. Or he'd still be locked down in Bobby's kennel, a dead man walking his prison on furry paws, day after day, while his family would be looking for a cure they'd never find.

Their life now isn't ideal; it isn't what he wanted for them. He knows he has failed as a father when it comes down to his youngest. It's a parent's job to raise their child and set them free, watch them bloom as they grow up into their own lives. He knows he did pretty good with that on Dean, given the circumstances; his oldest is grown, off on his own, basically happy. He's one of the best hunters there are out there and he loves it.

Sam, on the other hand… he isn't just hobbled because of the curse, he is literally caught in a leg-trap, hurt and bleeding, starving to death like any ensnared wolf. Sam's slowly losing himself, his personality, because he is too bound to John. His son can't get a beer without permission, he can't be free. Though John can occasionally order Sam to stay in the room and have a night to himself, Sam can't be allowed to wander. He can't find a girl and go off with her. Not even for a night. He can't hunt on his own, like Dean. Can't sleep in his own room. He can't even take a vacation without John, the risk that the curse would strike is just too great.

Anybody forced into a situation like this would crack under the pressure of being completely dependent on somebody else. And he knows that Sam is growing closer to that point every day. And it hurts. It fucking _hurts_ – to see his kid suffer like that. To watch the proud, rebellious, clever, _independent_ son he'd had fading away by inches, in agony. He feels it like broken glass deep down in his gut every time he is forced to watch him change from one form into the other, every time he sees the wistful look in Sam's eyes when he watches Dean leave the room to go on a hunt on his own.

He can't change it, though. He has no choice but to see this through. He has to do what he must to keep his child alive—

A branch snapping in the distance pulls him out of his thoughts so abruptly he almost stumbles. Once he finds his balance he curses himself for allowing himself to get sidetracked. He scans the area around him but it stays silent. They are scouting the Northern area of where they know the vampire nest must be. They need to find out the numbers of vamps in the nest before they go in with guns—_machetes_ blazing and find themselves _out_numbered. The plan is to split up, approach the nest from two different sides. So far all they've come across were the path and fresh tire tracks that follow it further into the woods. They've been on the muddy trail for over half an hour by now, him walking slowly next to it and Sam hidden in the bushes beyond it.

From what he has seen on the not so detailed map of the forest they'd found online he figures it cannot take them much longer to reach the house they have identified as the vampires' hideout and he slows his step. Next to him Sam falls completely silent and he is pretty sure he can feel his son's attentive gaze watch his every movement. A subtle move of his hands _(stay hidden) _and he's walking faster again, pretending to be lost in thought and completely unaware of his surroundings.

The hunt is on.

* * *

Stay silent, stealthy, slipping through the shadows of the trees.

A fresh breeze blows through fur, ruffling the thick mane at neck and shoulder level, and cooling the warm skin beneath. There's a strange scent on that wind. Stop, figure it out... sniffing. The weather is changing, there's a trace of raindrops in the air. A rabbit trail right _there_, crossing the well-used path beneath and disappearing under a bush.

Hunger.

No time. Pack is right there, too.

_Focus_.

It's a struggle. Familiar, now, though.

_It_ pulls again, tugs horribly, _deeper_. It gets stronger and it is wrong, so wrongwrong_wrong. _Hackles rise and a growl follows, head snapping to the side as sharp fangs try to sink into a leash that isn't there.

Free to go, unable to leave.

Because _of him, _a constant pressure in the background. As long as _he_ is near it doesn't hurt, doesn't tug, isn't there. _He_ needs to be close, within sight. It's easy, even without smell, even without sound _he_ can always be found.

Gunpowder and oil.

Sharp words.

Slow, deliberate moves.

_Orders. _

_He_ moves his hand, a command. _(Stay hidden.)_

Obedience.

Well-known, expected and _too much_, too loud. Fake.

There is a pack _(family)_ and there is a leader (_father_), but no alpha, no natural order. The leader is older, wiser, but not _stronger_. He needs to be challenged, there needs to be a fight to settle the order, to establish who is strong enough to rule the pack.

It's wrong to follow _just because._

It's hard to trust for the reason that it has always been this way.

It's impossible to obey a leader who never has to fight to defend his position.

Who never has to prove himself.

Wrong.

Wrongwrong_wrong._

_Son, don't ever attack me. _

It's a command, one of many which cannot be ignored. As long as it has to be obeyed there will never be order, never be respect. It will never feel right.

Sharp eyes settle on the familiar face for a heartbeat, study the tense posture. _He_ smells of anger, worry.

Fear.

That can't be right, _he_ is never afraid.

Suddenly, a sharp scent. The head comes up. Sniffing, trying to figure it out, stopping. The wind is carrying a trail now, hidden beneath the scents of the forest, an 'imprint' left by a presence passing through. Thick, almost mealy, _otherworldly, _strange.

Familiar.

A voice invading the mind, the thoughts, _the self_.

Again.

Calling, enticing, _demanding_ to be heard, to be obeyed.

**Get there, follow, give up.**

It's not as strong, it's not as real as before, it's not even there. And it still pulls, tears into the insides every time it is resisted.

_Don't listen, it can't hurt._

**Come to me.**

Phantom pain but real fear, panic getting stronger.

_Out, now, not again!_

The head sinks down, tail hiding between trembling legs. Lips peel back and fear forces its way out in a low, miserable whine.

_Run!_

"Sammy, be quiet."

Ears turn to the side, listening to the familiar voice. It provides peace, calm. It's close, it protects, keeps safe. _Father_, not leader.

The scent is gone, it has never been there, no trail to follow, no one to come to.

Silence.

Smells a rabbit, _hunger_ growling. No time.

Protect the pack.

Footfalls.

Familiar close by, unknown movement in the distance. Smell, faint, getting stronger. Sharp, sweet, blood, _human_ blood. Dead. Dead but _moving_. Moving toward the pack. Someone is coming.

_Danger!_

_Warn _him_!_

A low growl, fighting back the angry, loud warning bark that wants to break free.

Stay silent, warn _him_.

The hunt is on.


	6. Chapter 6

** A/N: **Well, that one took a while. I know I'm not really following canon with the... monster in this chapter, but I'm really not a fan of how they are shown on the show and so I added a little... something to it. I hope you enjoy it, I'm still having a lot of fun working on it!

Thanks, again, go to **ghost4** for the beta, the hand-holding, being there for me when I just can't make them behave and the neverending support. I would have stopped this long ago if it wasn't for her. I love you, hun, I really do. *hugs*

**A/N 2:** I've finally decided to stop posting on this site. There are a few reasons for that, one of them (well, actually the most important of them) being that messes with my formatting (and everbody elses) so much and I'm tired of formatting my stuff the way I want it only to have it butchered as soon as I post it.

I'm not taking anything down and stories that I'm working on (e.g. "And the earth was reaped", "If you could only see" and "Tales of the pack") will still be updated as soon as I finish another chapter, but other than that nothing "new" will be posted here.

If you are interested in future stories I write or the artwork I do occasionally or want to drop me a line about anything you're very, very welcome to have a look at my Live Journal (link on my author's page).

It's been so much fun posting and reading here, I think I'll miss it very much, but good things must come to an end one way or the other, huh?

Anyway, on with the story now! Enjoy!

* * *

The first sign of trouble is the fact that Sam breaks cover.

John is still scanning the path for signs of movement when suddenly his son's shaggy form steps out of the bushes a few feet in front of him. For a moment Sam just stands there, in plain sight, sniffing something on the ground. He's making a show of moving slowly, pretending to be relaxed, but for John's trained eyes he could as well have burst out of the undergrowth barking at the top of his lungs and attacking the first thing he sees. Sam is worried, so worried that he has decided to show himself to possible attackers, giving up any advantage of a surprise attack they might have had.

Over the years, Sam has perfected the art of showing one thing with his body but meaning something completely different. A wagging tail most people would interpret as a sign of welcoming strangers or affection towards his pack, John knows means "danger' when Sam's on the hunt. The faster it moves the more threatening it feels to him. Ears held to the side while staring off into the distance, seemingly uninterested in anything that might be happening around him, is Sam's version of keeping an eye on the situation; while cowering on the floor next to John with his tail tucked in between his legs is not a sign of fear or obedience but a warning that Sam's about to attack.

Body language is all Sam has in that form to communicate, and he is using it to the last hair on his bushy tail. Which, now that John is an expert at reading canines, makes for interesting observations and unintentionally funny or weird situations. John has no idea how Sam can keep his instincts under control and force his body to move one way when it's obvious that he'd rather do the complete opposite, but somehow it works.

Suddenly Sam's head comes up and he starts wagging furiously while staring down the path at something John can't see yet. A soft, excited almost-bark is followed by a few 'playful' jumps down the way and that's John cue to join the performance.

"Here, boy!"

He yells loud enough to be heard by anybody approaching them, and Sam turns at once. He starts running towards him, tail still wagging away a mile a minute and he gives another high, excited yelp before he bumps none too gently against John's legs, perfecting his act of a well-trained dog by sitting down in front of John, staring up at him expectantly. This close, John can see that Sam's whole body is trembling anxiously and he doesn't quite manage to keep his hackles down. The wolf noses John's hand nervously, another tell- tale sign he's barely holding it together. He follows that with a low, choked-off whine a moment later. This is no longer Sam being worried, whatever is coming their way, whatever he's sensing, it's bad, Sam's starting to panic.

Not good. This is supposed to be a scouting mission, they shouldn't meet anyone.

John's fingers close over the collar at Sam's neck and he gives a light tug, the movement subtle but still carrying a meaning. _Relax, calm down, keep it together. _Sam tenses briefly against his leg, then drops his head, waiting, ears turned back at the path in front of John, tracking something.

When John looks up there's the shape of a man in the distance. From what he can make out the stranger is about his height and roughly his weight and he's walking toward them at a swift pace, only a few seconds later he's already close enough for him to see individual features, dirty-blond hair, face set into a dangerous scowl that's directed at him.

John remains where he is, hand still buried in the shaggy hair at Sam's neck as he looks at the stranger, forcing his lips into what he hopes looks like a friendly grin.

The stranger stops a few feet away from him, gesturing at John and the forest behind him.

"This is private property, what the hell are you doing here?" He sounds pissed, ready to attack even, and John feels an answering growl rumble through Sam's throat, though it never makes it across his lips. John tenses, hopes it doesn't show and straightens, making a show of looking around, searching for something.

"I'm sorry, there was no sign or anything, I'm walking the dog…"

"Not on this land, get lost, _now_!"

Suddenly the man is moving, faster than anything John has ever seen, and he finds himself frozen for a second, can only watch detachedly how angry eyes suddenly _flash_ and the human face twists into something alien, features twisted in a grimace of pure fury. John doesn't really have words to describe how the man changes, but it batters through his defenses, strikes something hidden deep inside him, some kind of primal fear he didn't know existed. Ancient, overwhelming terror surges through his veins, forcing him to shy back, even when some small part of his brain is screaming at him that he knows what this is, that this thing is only using some kind of magical spell to scare him.

It works, for a too long moment he feels himself back away from the creature in front of him, has to fight with all his willpower against the compulsion to just _RUN_. He knows the second he gives in, the moment he turns his back he will be lost, vulnerable.

Prey.

It's his training, everything he's ever seen, monsters and magic, his wife dying on the ceiling, his kid getting cursed by a witch, things no one should be forced to live through and yet he has and it breaks through the terror, allows him to _not_ freak out and _not_ lose it. It's a close call, almost too close, but he makes it.

Sam isn't as lucky. There's a terrified whine next to him and Sam rips free of the grip John has on the collar. A flash of movement and the wolf takes off, tail tucked in between his legs, long body almost flying over the path in front of him. And then he's gone.

John feels too shaken to call him back, it's all he can do to remain standing and not follow him. He shakes his head and the shock lifts, gradually releasing his senses.

The vampire isn't impressed, in fact he's starting to look even more pissed than before and starts muttering to himself: "Boss said not to hunt tonight, but you're begging for it. You should have run when you had the chance…"

John learns then that vampires do indeed have a second set of teeth when they are feeding, he has the chance to watch firsthand how they descend and the man in front of him is baring his many teeth at him in an angry snarl.

It was supposed to be a scouting mission— but that doesn't mean that John didn't come prepared. In one fluid motion he has his machete out, watching with a grin close to satisfaction how the vampire realizes his opponent knows how to fight. And how to kill it. Unfortunately that doesn't seem to impress him, all that happens is another flash of the eyes, this time more a satisfied, almost playful smirk.

"This is gonna be fun."

The problem, John realizes almost immediately, is that vampires, or this one in particular, are so fucking _fast_ if they want to. You can barely do anything. The last of the man's words is still hanging in the air when he is hit in the chest by what feels like a battering ram at top speed. For a second it feels as if his rib cage simply gives in under the pressure and he stumbles backwards, wheezing in what little air makes it past his burning ribs. It takes all his strength to bring up his weapon again, and while black spots threaten his vision he forces himself to ignore the pain of moving and brings it down on the vampire in a powerful stroke. He has the satisfaction of hearing the creature growl in annoyance, and he can't fight back a grin when he sees it fall back a step. John immediately presses his advantage, following with another swing. Clearly the vampire hasn't expected him to be able to move much after its initial attack, it doesn't even try to dodge the blade, just stares at John as he runs the sharp sword through its shoulder.

John enjoys maybe a second of having the upper hand… then everything goes south. The vampire flips out, moves too fast for John to really follow what's happening. He has enough time to sense it rushing at him and then he is thrown back as if he weighs nothing by a shove so powerful he can feel his _bones_ reverberate from the force of it. He's flying, his whole body clearing the muddy path. His flight is abruptly cut off as he slams into something unyielding. Something in his shoulder gives way, and he yelps… but the noise snaps short as the impact drives the air form his lungs and he loses track of reality for a moment.

When he comes back to himself black spots dance across the edges of his vision and moving his head hurts so bad he can taste bile at the back of his throat.A blurry shape appears in front of him, starts walking toward him, slowly, as if it has all the time in the world. Which, he realizes distantly, might even be true. He tries to focus then, growling in annoyance when he finds himself unable to focus his thoughts, it takes way too much energy to keep them together, to not let them fly away from him like the many colorful leaves all around him. The shadow bends down, reaches out for him and he groans, wants to roll his eyes at his pathetic weakness. Some hunter he is taken out of the game by a single—

The movement is so fast that even without his apparent concussion he wouldn't have been able to track it. All he sees is a bright flash, barreling sideways into the shape in front of him, so fast, so _hard_ his opponent is knocked off his feet and crashes to the ground, buried beneath shaggy fur and roughly 120 pounds of pissed off wolf. A vicious growl makes the hair at the back of John's neck stand up and he flinches back, although some dazed part of his brain realizes it's actually nice to not have it directed at himself for a change.

Something about that picture, Sam attacking a vampire in this form, makes John feel uneasy. It's more than being worried about his son— there is something he should remember, but he can't. He watches dazedly how the wolf jumps off the creature and lands on the ground between him and it, never taking his eyes off the threat in front of them. This close even his blurry sight picks up the way Sam is trembling with fury, watches how he lowers his head, fangs bared, another deep, aggressive growl shivering through the heaving chest. Sam's hackles are up all the way and his movements are slow, stiff, pure _animal_, threatening, dangerous, pissed as John has ever seen him. Ready to fight, to _kill_.

The vampire is watching the wolf with open curiosity, John has no idea what exactly he's thinking, but the cruel smile that plays at the corners of the pale lips sends a shiver of worry down his spine. It grows to a full-blown shudder when the man tilts his head to the side and studies Sam, even goes so far as to sniff the air for a second before his smile deepens.

"You're no ordinary dog…"

Sam answers with another growl, takes a step forward, eyes trained on the man's throat, stiffening even more when the vampire bares his own fangs. And, just like that, John remembers, the knowledge's there, as clear as crystal – and he knows what's wrong. If Sam fights a Vamp, if he _bites_ him, swallows blood—

The vampire moves and Sam reacts, in one fluid motion the wolf is on the creature again, taking advantage of the man's prone position, using his weight and speed to push him back, going for the throat.

John does the only thing he can think of.

"Sam, _DOWN_!"

His voice cuts through the air and, as it has countless times before, it drops the wolf to the ground before his fangs can sink into the man's neck. The shaggy body lands with an audible thump next to the man where it crouches immediately, head held low, skimming the mud, the whole body shaking with tension, dying to attack. Sam is so tense, so focused on the man's throat he can't even force out a growl through his own.

The vampire stares at Sam for a moment, the looks over at John, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

"Worried about your precious puppy?" he drawls mockingly and _moves_, lashing out with his foot. Sam is too close to dodge, unable to move because of the command and the man's boot crashes into his side, so fast and with such brute force it sends the shaggy body flying through the air.

Sam hits the trunk of a tree behind him with a sickening crunching sound that forces a horrible mewling cry from his throat. He crumples to the ground, paws twitching weakly against the mud.

Hearing that sound, seeing his son collapse, finally clears the lethargy from John's brain and he forces himself to his feet, reaching inside his coat for the knife Bobby had given him earlier. "Dipped in dead man's blood," he'd said, "works like a poison on them, will slow them down." John hadn't meant to use it, isn't even sure it would really work, but he'd lost his machete when he'd been thrown into the tree earlier and the knife is the only thing he has left.

The vampire is still watching gleefully how Sam struggles to get back to his paws and John wants nothing more than to check on his son, but he can't, he needs to take the sonofabitch out or they are both done. He straightens, unnoticed, sways dangerously on his feet for a moment, his vision graying out, but he forces that back, he needs to _focus_.

He surprises even himself with how much strength he has still left as he launches himself at the vampire. He keeps the knife hidden from view as long as he can, telling himself over and over again that he only needs to graze it, only needs to make one cut and the poison will do its job.

He uses the fact that the creature is obviously enjoying watching his kid in pain to get close– and brings the knife down, slicing through the jacket the man's wearing and leaving a long scratch behind. The man hisses, though it sounds more annoyed than painful, and turns his head to glare at him.

"Shouldn't have done that…"

John doesn't see it coming, doesn't even think the thing actually moves— but suddenly he's airborne again. He realizes distractedly that he's lost his second weapon now and curses himself for not being at the top of his game.

And then the world slows down, everything around him suddenly happens so slowly as if he is watching it from under water. He can feel the impact with the tree in his back ages before the pain sets in, and in that moment of limbo between coming to rest at the foot of yet another tree and all encompassing agony, several things happen at the same time.

The vampire is moving, getting to his feet again, eyes fixed on John, a scowl so angry written across his face that he can see the beast under the human features.

Sam is moving, too. He has somehow managed to get to his feet and is limping toward him as well, listing heavily to the side as he tries to sidetrack the vampire, to get between John and the threat, furious eyes fixed on the man's neck. John knows the wolf is out to protect him, to _kill_ the creature, John can see it in his eyes. Sam won't back down this time. Both Sam and the wolf will protect him to their last breath if they have to, he can see that in every line of the battered, swaying body.

And that scares him, sends a shock through him worse than anything the vampire could ever do to him. He won't allow Sam to be hurt. It's not going to happen. As long as he has any say in this Sam will not risk being turned, no way. He puts all his strength into the words, raises his voice as loud as he can, _meaning_ it this time, concentrating so hard on his intention he can literally feel the magic wrap around Sam's body as he grounds out, "Stay away, Sam, stay—"

He doesn't get any further, suddenly the pain is there, white, hot and _everywhere_, it hits him so hard he doesn't even feel his eyes rolling back in his head.

And then he's gone.

* * *

_Dad!_

**Stay away**

_No!_

**Stay away**

_Dad, get up!_

**Stay away**

_Goddamn it, Dad, get up get up get UP!_

The dead is moving, the leader is not.

_Come on, Dad, please get up, move!_

Down, helpless, weak. Protect him, protect the leader—

**Stay away**

_Come on, move, get over there, help him, move!_

**Stay away**

_No. No no nonononono, fight it!_

It smells of blood, death, decay. Strange, wrong, not supposed to be there. Powerful. Fast. Too close, too close to the pack, needs to protect the pack, vulnerable, doesn't move.

_Dad, come on, please, movemovemovemovemove—_

Anger explodes forcefully, furious barks batter at the dead's back, challenging it, daring it to come closer, to fight. The head lowers, lips peel back, ears flatten.

Fight.

Kill.

Protect.

Pack.

_Get over here, you sick fuck, leave him the fuck alone!_

The dead turns around and bares its teeth, snarls a warning, dark power hovering behind dead eyes.

Can't run away, not when the pack is helpless, needs protection.

_Dad, please, move, get up, let me HELP!_

**Stay away**

_FUCK!_

The dead doesn't have to stay away. It kneels down next to the leader, touches his face, moves him, but he doesn't wake up, doesn't move—

_MOVE MOVEMOVEMOVEMOVEMOVE_

**Stay away**

_No, we can't, we have to help him, GET THERE!_

Fangs gleam, the dead leans over (_father_), gets ready to bite.

_GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY DAD!_

Terror, bright light.

Darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

He wakes up in time to feel his brain leaking out of his ears. At least that's what it feels like, that and a pain so sharp, so excruciating he can barely keep himself from making a sound. At the back of his mind, beyond the sea of pain, he knows he has to be quiet. He remembers that there was something he had been fighting, remembers he hadn't expected to ever wake up again, there was something, something bad…

Sounds slowly penetrate the fog in his head, soft breathing, wind rustling in the bushes – bushes?—a single bird sounding in the distance, and a high-pitched, miserable whining closer by. He's heard that before, he knows it, he just can't remember—

Sam.

Forcing his eyes open is the first mistake, and it ends with him groaning in pain against fierce stabs of lighting inside his head which almost sever his fragile hold on consciousness. He feels himself start to slip back into the soothing dark, the painless void, when the voice sounds. His eyes water when he blinks them open, and he wants to raise a hand to wipe them, but his body isn't answering to his mental commands at all. Bright, everything around him is bright light and trees and mud and grass.

It hurts.

Sam…

Movement to his right— then a whimper.

Sam's in pain, he's hurt…

It takes him too long to roll his head to the side and he almost regrets it as not only his sight wavers but also his reality becomes hazy. He can feel himself start to float. And the pain spikes so bad he has to close his eyes for a moment. When he opens them a too long moment later he can see a blurry shape slowly moving back and forth across his vision a few feet away from him.

John ties to unclench his teeth enough to whisper his son's name, but that effort is lost when a particularly painful stab of pain whites out his vision. He can't fight against a moan this time and hears an answering whimper from somewhere to the left. The sound scares him. His kid is hurt and he can't even look at him and the resulting panic sends a rush of adrenaline through his tired limbs. His eyes snap open, take a moment, and finally focus on the moving shape.

Sam is hovering a few feet away from him. His posture is wrong, the furry head is hanging low, ears pricked at him, tail hanging limp. He's walking back and forth a few steps, limping heavily, favoring his left front paw. He whines softly when he sees John focus on him. Sam stops for a moment and watches him and as John studies him he can see something dripping from Sam's nose, it almost looks as if Sam is _breathing_ blood. John has a flash of a heavy boot connecting with Sam's side and sending him crashing into a tree. He remembers Sam's pain, the sound he had made when he'd hit the tree and he winces at the memory. The vampire had been so strong, so fucking strong—

Vampire. Blood. Sam's nose covered in blood. The bloodsucker nowhere to be seen…

Oh God.

"Sam…" he breathes weakly, forcing his arm to move, patting the ground next to him uncoordinatedly. "Sammy, c'mere, boy…" He needs to check him, needs to make sure he is okay.

Sam is watching him intently, whining low in his throat, limping a step back when John moves his arm. And even that small movement sends a flash of pain through his head. John closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, tries to clear his head. If only the world would stop turning, dammit, he needs to focus.

The world blinks out. Then, in the next flash, he can see Sam swaying toward him, trying to get between him and the vamp, growling, desperate to shield him, not backing down—

No, oh God, no!

He blinks and is back in the present. Sam is still moving slowly, making all kinds of pathetic noises at the back of his throat as he watches him, golden-brown eyes never moving from John's face.

"Sammy…" he mumbles, moving his fingers, feeling cold, wet mud beneath them. "Come here…" He feels as if he is about to fall asleep, too detached, too tired to stay awake much longer, even though some part of him knows they have to get up, to get away, get moving before somebody comes and checks on what happened here.

Sam's ears go flat on his head and he lifts his muzzle slightly, as he gives a low whine– and John sees how much energy even this small movement costs him. Sam falls silent, staring at him intently. He takes an almost step in John's direction and then moves back, shaking his head and causing himself to lose his sense of balance as he stumbles and needs a second to readjust. Sam is trying to tell him something, but John apparently lacks the necessary brain power to figure it out.

"What izzit?" he manages to ground out, needing to know, understand. Sam whimpers, raises a paw again, as if moving toward him, stops again, then focuses on something behind John, looks back at him.

A sudden thought surfaces out of the dark. Are they alone? Where the hell did the vamp—

Suddenly Sam freezes, crouches down, attention on something next to John. His lips peel back in a silent growl, the whole body tensing, going stiff.

Someone's coming.

Reflexes have John's head whip around to the other side to see what is coming and he immediately realizes he shouldn't have done that, it's more than his body can handle. His head protests, a searing, pain that tears through his limbs, taking everything with it. The last thing he hears is a low growl and then everything just… fades… away…

* * *

Wrong.

Something is wrong, he can feel it.

Again.

This stupid hunt, he'd had a bad feeling about it right from the start. And he should have listened to it, should have said something.

And Bobby isn't exactly helping with anything.

Oh, he is an excellent hunter. He knows his stuff, knows what to look for, how to have Dean's back, find every trail. As in _every trail_. Even If it doesn't belong to their hunt. Dean knows, because Bobby stops. At every turn of the path. Every fucking turn. He stops walking, kneels down and inspects the ground. Thoroughly.

And it's driving. Him. Crazy.

Because Dean knows where to go. He's studied the maps. Thoroughly. He knows where they are, he knows where they should be and he knows where they aren't.

And it so does NOT help that Bobby is muttering under his breath. All the time. In Chinese. Or Japanese. Or freaking Swahili. It doesn't really matter what language it is, but it makes him want to hit something. Hard. Repeatedly.

And then, when they finally arrive at the house, Bobby stops. Again. Doesn't get closer to check it out, _no_, he looks for cover and stays there. Watches the house. For exactly ten minutes. Not moving. Not even muttering. He doesn't spare a glance at Dean, just keeps looking at the house.

And then they go back to the cars and wait for the others. Who don't turn up.

Something is wrong…

"Something ain't right…"

Bobby's quiet voice pulls him out of his thoughts, for the third time that day actually, and that's just embarrassing. He blinks and turns to where the older hunter is leaning against his car.

"32…" he mumbles after checking his watch again. They should have been back by now, 32 minutes ago… or sent them a message if they couldn't make it. John has a hard time adjusting to cell phones and text messages, but he is able to send them and usually does so. The fact that he hasn't done it is bad news. Their father never breaks their hunting rules. The same rules that say they would have to wait for another 28 minutes before they could go and check on them.

28 long, fucking minutes.

So much could go wrong in 28 minutes. And that doesn't even include the 32 minutes they are already overdue.

28 minutes.

He can't do that, he needs to check—

"Let's get going."

And isn't Bobby the _best_ hunting partner like ever?

Bobby is still cautions, moving slower than Dean can tolerate, but they are at least following the right trail now. He can see his father's footprints on the path as clear as the path itself. Sam's are nowhere to be seen, but that's a good sign, he knows his brother has his father's back and is following him hidden in the bushes.

And that's all there is, for a long time, footprints that go on and on.

Until, suddenly, Bobby tenses and stops. And Dean almost snaps at him cause, really, they don't have time for this, they should keep moving—

"You hear that?" Bobby is whispering and Dean frowns, listens.

And there it is; a low growl. He'd recognize that sound everywhere.

"Sam…"

They are moving faster now, still as silently as they can, but soon they can see a shaggy form on the left side of the path. It's Sam, crouching, eyes fixed at them, lips peeled back into a snarl. His stance doesn't change when they move closer and he doesn't stop growling, his message loud and clear.

_Stay back._

"Dean…"

Bobby's quiet voice draws Dean's eyes away from the wolf and he looks at where Bobby is pointing. There, hidden behind the remains of a bush lies John's crumpled form, unmoving. Dean takes a step, about to rush to his father's side, but Bobby's arm across his chest stops him, holds him back.

"Look."

He's pointing somewhere behind Sam— and after a moment of searching Dean can make out boots, jeans-clad legs and a torso. A person, male he assumes— but there is something wrong with it. The head is missing. And, as he takes in more details, he sees an arm a few feet away from the body. The wolf is standing between the body and John and Dean realizes he is guarding him, _shielding_ him.

"What the hell—"

Slowly, he and Bobby step closer, and even though he wants to get to their father's side he stays back, covering Bobby as the older hunter slowly walks over to the still body.

Sam follows Bobby with his eyes, doesn't move from where he is crouching, but his growl gets louder.

"Sam, shut up…" Dean hisses at the wolf, rolling his eyes at how the sound deepens for a second before the animal falls silent. Dean's eyes start to wander back and forth between where Bobby is kneeling and where his father is lying, and the longer Bobby takes, the more nervous he feels.

"Head wasn't cut off…" Bobby mumbles, sounding irritated. "Looks like it was ripped off—"

A soft groan and Dean sees his dad move slightly, sees him try to roll onto his side, his boot rustling the leaves as his leg twitches. A moment later Dean is at his side.

"Dad?"

His father is pale and from this close Dean sees he is trembling. Dazed eyes meet his briefly.

"Dean?" John rasps, voice low and disturbingly weak.

"Yeah, it's me.. keep still, don't move—"

John's head rolls back slowly and he squeezes his eyes shut, obviously fighting against a wave of pain. "Sam…" he whispers, "check n'Sam…"

And with that he goes limp again.

"We need to leave."

Bobby is next to him, sounding worried but determined. Dean hesitates, looks down at his unconscious father.

"I don't know if we should move him…"

"Dean, whatever killed that man sure wasn't your brother or your father; we need to go before it comes back."

And Bobby is right, he knows that… he just isn't sure how they are supposed to carry his dad back, the man isn't exactly a light-weight and the walk back will take some time. Bobby kneels at John's other side, looking over at Dean.

"I got him, go check on your brother."

Dean hesitates, he can't tear his eyes away from his father. He is too pale, too still. John Winchester is a lot of things, _silent_ isn't one of them. Bobby throws him an urgent look and Dean turns reluctantly, eyes settling on the shaggy form that is hovering a few feet away from them.

The wolf is a mess; his fur is dirty, muddy. He's damp on one side as if he has been lying in the wet grass for some time. His posture is hunched, tense, yet he is trembling like a leaf. He isn't afraid or scared, it's shock that has him shaking like this. The wild eyes are fixed on John, gaze intense and steady, even when the rest of his body is swaying dangerously from side to side. Something is up with him, something is _wrong_. There's so much blood matting the shaggy fur and the way he holds his body tells Dean he is in considerable pain.

Dean knows better than to approach him in a tense situation like this— wolfish reflexes have already led to many misunderstandings in the past. He does what he knows is best and squats down on the ground, a few feet away from the trembling animal, calling his brother's name softly. "Sam. "

Dazed eyes crawl over to him.

"Can you hear me?"

The wolf's head dips lower and his ears roll to the side, the tail starts to wag hesitatingly, sluggishly in greeting before he lets out a low whine. But he doesn't move.

"This would be so much easier if you'd just switch back…" Dean grumbles under his breath, noticing with growing concern how what looks an awful lot like blood drips from the canine's nose. Wild eyes flick back to John and the wolf gives a short, low growl before he looks back at Dean, as if trying to tell him something.

"Come on, you know the drill…" Dean is getting nervous and it comes out harsher than he means it. They have to leave, have to get them out, get them to safety ASAP and the wolf just isn't playing along.

Another growl and the animal lifts a paw, starts moving toward Dean, but then stops the limb in mid-air and he draws it back, another of those godawful sounds falling from his throat. Dean is pretty sure the wolf is not being his thick-headed self right now; there is something seriously wrong with him.

"I don't have time for this…" he growls under his breath and stands up, not missing the way the wolf shrinks back from him for a second before visibly forcing himself to remain where he is.

Three long steps and Dean is next to him, squatting down again. "If you bite me I'm so gonna put ribbons in your tail when you're not looking…" he warns him under his breath, trying to calm both of them down with the joke. The wolf growls softly at that and cocks one of his ears playfully before he places his head on Dean's thigh and immediately leans heavily against him. Dean is both surprised and worried at this open need for support— normally the animal wouldn't be caught having to lean on another person like that, let alone let anyone close enough to touch him.

"Dude, you stink…" he mumbles softly as he starts running his hand slowly over the shaking body, searching for broken bones or open wounds. The wolf holds as still as he can, twitching slightly whenever Dean hits sensitive spots. There is no huge gaping hole in his body, but as soon as Dean runs his hand over the left side the canine tenses and starts moving away, turns his head to the side and snaps at his hand. Dean pulls it back immediately, cursing under his breath.

"Dammit, hold still, dog-breath…" he growls, curling one arm around the wolf's neck where he is still leaning against him to hold the head immobile. Then he inspects the side again, not stopping when the whining turns into a pained yelp as he can feel bones shifting under his fingers. The canine tries to draw back, starts struggling to get his head out of the hold. Something's definitely broken. "Hold _still_…"

He barely keeps his hold on the twisting body and fights to lift the head to look into the eyes. They look dazed, tracking movement almost lazily and react way too slow. Concussion. Great, just great.

"How is he?" Bobby calls from his spot next to John, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Pretty banged up, broken ribs, concussion…"

"Can he walk?"

Dean looks down at the wolf, takes in the trembling, the way he favors his left paw and is still leaning against him. Then his gaze is drawn to their father and he sighs softly, patting the furry head slightly. "He has to— no way I'm carrying his heavy ass through the forest." He would, if Sam was too injured to move he'd drag him all the way to China if he had to, but right now Sam is upright, moving and responsive and their dad isn't and that settles his priorities straight pretty quickly. Bobby seems to agree; he rises from the crouch next to John and looks at him.

"Then give me a hand, we gotta go."

Dean gets up, eying the wolf thoughtfully as he walks over to Bobby and their father. "You wanna try and change back?" he asks, wondering if maybe having to coordinate two legs less might help Sam with his balance, but the wolf barks at that, backs away from him and limps slowly to the path next to them.

"I take that as a no…" Dean mumbles under his breath and watches him worriedly, thinking that changing back would be too painful with broken ribs. It's a weird side-effect of the curse, to change from one form to the other he knows Sam's body undergoes a transformation that breaks and mends his bones, yet, if Sam is injured in one form he will carry the wound over into the other. There is no miraculous healing afterwards. It doesn't really make sense to Dean, but then again, nothing about this curse does. It basically just sucks.

Dean helps Bobby get John's unresponsive form up and propped up between them and they set out to the long walk back to the cars. He hadn't really paid attention before to how far Sam and his father had wandered, too focused on getting to them, but now he realizes it will take them quite some time. And with the heavy man between them who seems to grow heavier with every step it will take them three times as long to get back. Not good, with whatever is out there they need to be moving _faster_.

He keeps glancing behind them where the wolf is following them slowly, head and tail hanging almost limply as he trudges on stubbornly. He seems barely awake at times, yet he keeps a distance to them, he won't fall too far behind but he won't come closer than about four feet.

Once, when they have to stop for a second to catch their breaths, Sam suddenly stops walking, as if he runs into an invisible wall. The wolf gives a surprised yelp and growls at them, at _their dad_, falling back a step. Bobby throws Dean a weird look and then moves experimentally, dragging John back a step so Dean is forced to follow to avoid dropping him. The wolf snarls, flashing white fangs and backing away as well, growling. Bobby takes another step back, closer to the wolf, and the animal tenses again, the growl growing louder and Sam actually lifts his head, glaring at Bobby reproachfully.

"What the—" Dean starts, but Bobby interrupts him by turning to the wolf, eying him thoughtfully.

"You can't get closer… John told you to stay away from him, didn't he?"

Sam's head snaps up and he stares at Bobby, his tail starts wagging slowly. Sometimes Dean wishes the wolf would use human gestures, like nodding or shaking his head, but even though he knows Sam is still capable of reacting like that, he won't.

"That doesn't make sense, Bobby, why would he do that?"

Bobby snorts, humorless. "A lot of what your father does doesn't make sense… at first."

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. "Bobby, this is not the time…"

Bobby simply turns back to the path and starts walking again, adjusting John's weight on his shoulder. "We won't know for sure until he can talk again, in any case. Let's get them out of here before we get company…"

Their dad and Bobby have issues, he knows that. Hell, _everybody_ knows that. Usually they can put them aside long enough to work together on a hunt, but it's still a tense situation at the best of times. They are friends, sort of, but Dean knows his father isn't too sad every time he leaves the yard after a hunt. He and Sam usually stay out of it all, it's none of their business after all— but sometimes they just can't ignore it and one wrong word usually leads to an escalation.

As if they don't have enough problems already.

Whatever, not _his_ problem.

Another thirty minutes later they finally arrive at the cars. Sam immediately approaches Bobby's car and waits for the older hunter to open it. Dean fights against a sudden flash of unease. He doesn't really like that at all, he wants to keep an eye on both his brother and father, but as it seems that won't happen. Especially if Bobby is right and Sam can't get near John at the moment. Bobby helps him getting John into the back of his truck, hands Dean a blanket and disappears in his own car. Dean has a short view of Sam crouching stiffly on the backseat and then the car is already on the street, leaving him to follow them. With his half conscious father.

Damned fucked up hunt.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Wow, this was a serious case of _writer's-block/muse gone missing/show's not making it easy to stay interested in the characters/maybe I should switch fandoms _– kind of thing. Oh, and let's not forget the part where my notebook died on me and I lost everything I have worked on in the past few months. For a few days I was thinking about finishing this story with this chapter or the next and moving on. I won't, though, I just have to keep reminding myself why I fell in love with the show in the first place and that should do the trick… ;)

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I'm REALLY sorry it has taken me so long for this, I'll do better with the next chapter, I promise. Oh, and to everybody who reviewed the last chapter and didn't get a reply from me please don't be angry, I know a lot of review alerts got lost during the days my PC died. But I've read them all and, in the end, they were the things that kept me going.

This chapter, as all before, is dedicated to my **Ghosty**. She's having a really bad time atm and I have no idea where she found the time to beta this and help me so much with the boys. I wouldn't know what to do without her, she made sense of all this weird stuff they were throwing at me, so far this chapter has been the most confusing thing I have ever written and she made sense of it. I don't know how she does that, every time I'm lost she is the one to get me back and keep me going. Thank you SO MUCH, hun. *hugs*

* * *

John wakes up twice during the drive.

He's moving slowly, trying to sit up, but he doesn't seem to have enough energy left to complete the move. He mumbles something under his breath, but it's so slurred Dean doesn't quite catch it, the only thing that's understandable is his brother's nickname. He blinks at Dean, obviously too dizzy to focus properly, then sags back down against the seat, eyes sliding shut. Dean isn't sure if his dad can still hear him, but he tells him that Sam is fine and safe. If John gets the message he doesn't react, he's out again only moments later.

It worries Dean. His Dad is a tough bastard, and he usually _walks_ away from a hunt gone bad with barely a scratch. _If_ he is injured at all it's seldom bad enough to slow him down or incapacitate him for too long. Something really bad must have happened back there and Dean can't stop thinking about how awful the dead body had looked, literally torn apart, limb by limb. He isn't new to the gruesome scenes left after rough fights, but this… Neither his dad nor his brother could have done what was done to that vamp and that leaves the question of who—or _what—_could have. And why had it left both Sam and Dad untouched? Or, if not exactly untouched then at least alive and relatively whole, in more or less good shape, all legs and arms and _heads_ still attached.

There are at least three different creatures that inhabit forests that would be able to tear a body apart like that, but none of them would have spared his dad and Sam. Not that he is complaining, hell _no_, he'll take a concussed Dad and freaked-out Sam over the alternative any day, thanks.

And still, he'd feel a lot better if he knew what had happened.

It's starting to get dark when they arrive at the motel and that helps a little with getting the still unresponsive body of his father inside. They have Dad on the bed before Bobby tells him Sam refused to leave the car. And that's okay, really, because Dean knows he'll use the solitude to change back. He can't help Sam with the change and so he concentrates on what he _can_ do, and that means looking after their father.

Bobby is making a phone call to some hunter he knows, getting backup for the nest while Dean removes his father's coat and shoes and gets him as comfortable as it gets on the small bed. He works quietly on assessing his dad's wounds, and he can't hold back a wince at the bloody gash on John's temple. It looks serious, it's bleeding like nothing Dean's ever seen before and when he cleans it, it seems to be so painful his father groans and tries to flinch away, even though he is deeply unconscious. All through the cleaning, John doesn't wake up and that isn't a good sign.

Other than the head wound, his father is suffering from two broken ribs on his left side. And there are a few already spectacularly colored bruises highlighting that, which cause John's breath to hitch when Dean feels along them.

"How is he?"

Sam's voice is soft and tired and Dean hasn't even heard him approach. Dean can't help the start, turning back to look behind him to the door.

Sam hasn't come in; he is still outside, only half of him visible through the open door. His face is a mess, bloody streaks across it, most of them under his nose. It looks like he tried to wipe some of the blood off his face but wasn't very successful. He's not standing straight, more hunched over, one arm curled protectively around his chest. He is having trouble focusing, blinking repeatedly as he looks over at them. Sam is wearing one of the set of spare-clothes they keep in the cars for emergencies, a T-shirt, jeans, shoes. He looks completely beat to hell and then some and he's leaning heavily against the door-frame for support.

Dean looks back at their father, shrugging. "Severe concussion, he hasn't really been lucid, yet. He almost woke up a couple of times on his own, I'll take that as a good sign. Broken ribs." He turns back to the door, eyeing his brother critically. "What the hell happened out there?"

Sam's eyes are focused on their dad and he doesn't answer right away.

"Sam?"

"I don't know…" Sam keeps his eyes on John, his voice low. "I don't remember much, there was a man and he attacked Dad… I tried to stop him… I don't know what happened then…" There's pain in his voice and something else Dean can't identify. "He kicked me, that's the last thing I remember."

Dean curses softly. "We need to know what happened, Bobby said the guy's head was _ripped_ off, how the hell did that happen?"

Sam's eyes finally crawl over to him and this time he sees guilt shining in them. "I don't know," he mumbles softly and Dean frowns, looking him over carefully.

"Sam, are you okay?"

Sam blinks, stands up straighter, tries for casual and fails miserably. "I'm fine."

Yeah, right.

"Sammy?"

Dean's still turned toward the door and his brother, so the rough voice coming from behind him takes him completely by surprise. Their dad still has his eyes closed at first, but opens them slowly and blinks, squinting up first at the ceiling, then at Dean's face. Dean can hear his brother move behind him, but his attention is locked on their dad.

"You okay?" John has still trouble to get the words out through a jaw clenched against obvious pain, most of them are barely understandable. Slurred speech, another sign for a concussion, not that Dean would need even more. Their dad moves his head slowly and squints at the door.

Sam doesn't answer and when Dean turns to look at him he almost flinches back.

Sam looks _pissed_, his gaze is fixed on their dad's face and his eyes are narrowed to slits. He's still gripping the edges of the doorframe, but he's no longer leaning against it for support, it looks as if the frame is the only thing that is keeping him from jumping on their father. His whole body is tense, shaking, but this is no longer exhaustion, it's anger, he's literally shaking with rage and Dean doesn't have the slightest idea what the hell just happened to make him go from tired and beaten to _ready to rip their dad's head off._ What's really making his skin crawl, though, is the fact that Sam doesn't make a sound, there's no snarl, no growl, no bitching, no comeback, nothing.

For a moment nobody moves, it feels as if nobody is breathing, the tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. And then Sam moves, steps away from the door and disappears around the corner, out of Dean's line of sight.

What the _hell_?

He turns back to find his father blink at the door, brows drawn together in equal parts of pain and confusion, an expression Dean isn't familiar with.

"Dad?"

John's eyes crawl to him, then squeeze shut for a moment while their dad reaches up and presses the heel of his hand against his temple, groaning softly. He starts probing the area around the injury cautiously and Dean studies his shaky movements, flashing back to a time where John would order them to _leave it alone _if they were hurt. Finally, tired eyes meet his again and John gestures toward the door with his hand.

"What's with him?"

Damned, if he knew… Dean shrugs, shifting slightly on the bed to make more room when John starts to sit up slowly. He shouldn't be moving, not with the way his arms start shaking and he sways for a moment, but it's no use telling him that so Dean keeps quiet and waits until John is leaning back against the headrest, taking deep breaths to calm what Dean believes to be an upset stomach. He hands him the washcloth for the still bleeding cut and gets off the bed.

"We found you unconscious and the vampire dead. Sam was guarding you—you told him to stay away from you, didn't you? What happened?"

John takes a moment to remember, then speaks in a low voice, some of his words still slurred. "Vamp got the jump on me, 't was moving too fast—" He breaks off and frowns, lost in thought, oblivious to Dean's raised eyebrow. It's not very often that his dad loses control of a situation and it's even rarer that he'd admit to it. "Knocked me into a tree, Sam tried to distract it but it got him, kicked him in the side… I think he was thrown into a tree— did you check on him?"

Dean remembers the miserable wolf, the broken ribs, the limping and winces as he tries to imagine the force it would take to throw either of them. "He's banged up, I think you're both in for some serious observation tonight…"

Strangely enough, John doesn't object to that, just nods and closes his eyes, and Dean's stomach twists in worry. This isn't like his dad at all, no glares, no grumbling. Damned, fucked up hunt.

"You know, keeping an eye on you would be a lot easier if you could actually share a room."

John frowns at that and squints at him. "What?"

Dean arches an eyebrow, gesturing toward the door. "Sam. You told him to stay away from you. He can't get inside the room."

John gives him a blank look. "Why would I do that?"

It's Dean's turn to frown. "I don't know, when we found you he was standing between you and the dead vamp. He couldn't get near you, Bobby tested it. We couldn't put you in the same car."

John's eyes narrow before they go distant. After a moment he shakes his head slowly. "I don't remember that."

"Kid was scared out of his mind."

The familiar voice comes from the door, once again, Dean can't help the start, then turns around and throws Bobby a glare.

"Scared?" John asks from behind him and Dean knows his father is no longer leaning back against the bed.

Singer enters the room, scanning John for a moment. "Whatever happened to you, he was scared of it, he was barely holding it together when we got there."

Dean likes the guy, he really does, but right now he really just wants him to shut the hell up. This isn't right, you don't just walk into a room, telling their Dad—of all people— that Sam was _scared_ on a hunt, that's bad form and, not to mention, so not Bobby's place to do that. Definitely a _no go_ if he's ever seen one.

And what the hell is Bobby talking about, anyway? Dean knows Sam, more than anyone, in any shape and form. And, yeah, Sam had been shaken by something, he'd seen that. But Sam seemed okay, now, more or less, and the hunt is over, and whatever had happened is _over_. No need at all to talk like that. He feels himself stiffen and he scowls at the older hunter. But Bobby doesn't seem to care, he's watching John who is still trying to sit up further.

"How's the head?"

"Been better," John admits quietly.

Dean expects the older hunter to make a joke about "hard heads" now, but Bobby changes the topic. "What do you think did that? To the vamp?"

John squints at him, then at Dean. "You said the head was ripped off?"

"Not only the head, arms and legs, too."

John frowns, massages his temple for a moment. "Last time I saw him he was standing…"

There's a pause and Dean decides to ask the question that has been bugging him ever since they've left the forest behind. "What if it was the thing that's after Sam?"

John immediately tenses and sits up straighter, gaze snapping to the door, a worried frown creasing his brow for a moment, before he shakes his head. "If it was after him, why would it leave him alive?"

"Maybe Sam fought it off. " Bobby turns to look at Dean. "Have you talked to him?"

"He was here before you came back, he can't remember anything about the attack since after that SOB kicked him."

"You said he has a concussion, too?"

Dean shrugs. "Would be my guess, but I'm not a vet…"

Neither John nor Bobby seem to be in the mood for jokes right now and Dean can read the glare his dad sends at him just fine._ Go, check on him, _now. He shrugs and leaves the room, stopping outside for a moment before he takes a deep breath and opens the next door down.

And stops.

Sam is nowhere to be seen, but there is an odd sound coming from the other end of the room, a loud wheezing that seems to grow louder in the short moment he stands at the door. Someone is fighting for breath, painful rasps for air and Dean has just enough time to think "punctured lung" before he is rushing to the bed, his brother's name falling from his lips in a panicked shout.

"Sam!"

It's only three steps to the bed and he automatically goes to his knees when he sees his brother lying on the floor, stretched out along the bed, face down. Dean is already reaching out to check his pulse, his own heart hammering in his chest, when Sam moves, tries to push himself upright, before sinking back to the floor.

"Sam, take it easy, stay down…" Dean gasps and is about to lean over him when Sam comes up again, raises himself up on shaking arms before he goes down, again.

And comes back up.

It takes Dean about four repetitions of those movements to realize that Sam is doing _push-ups_.

His brother is pale, sweating, blood dripping from his nose to the floor, his eyes scrunched shut in obvious pain, arms shaking badly as he moves up and down and up again. He apparently hasn't noticed Dean yet.

"Sam?"

Sam doesn't react, doesn't seem to have heard him at all. He just keeps going, breath wheezing in and out of him in pained gasps. It's pretty much the weirdest thing he's ever seen Sam do, including the incident with the nightgown and the rubber duck. This time it isn't really funny, though, not at all. Sam is scaring the shit out of him, acting like this. Dean raises his voice, snapping at his brother while he reaches out a hand to shake his shoulder. "Sam, what the he—"

It all goes south from there.

The second he touches Sam, the younger man explodes upwards and _snarls_ at him, the sound so raw, so _feral_ Dean imagines wolfish eyes flash at him. He flinches back, moves so fast the lands on his ass next to the bed, watching, completely stunned, as Sam falls back into a crouch and bares his teeth at him before Sam also loses his balance. He topples back, hitting the wall behind him. Wide, wild eyes stare at Dean and Sam gasps in pain, immediately curling an arm around his chest, sucking in a wheezing breath.

"Sorry…" he gasps, no voice left, "…sorry, man, didn't hear you…" For a moment Sam looks as spooked as Dean feels, but that expression quickly changes into one of carefully guarded indifference and Sam meets his eyes reluctantly. "How's Dad?"

Dean blinks, his eyebrows crawling up to his hairline as he tries to understand what he's seen a moment before and relate it to the flat tone and expression Sam is trying to pull off.

"How's Dad?" he mimics, fixing his brother with a piercing glare. "I find you like this, working out with a concussion so bad you couldn't walk in a straight line, with busted ribs and _bleeding_ all over the freaking place, and that's what you ask? How's _Dad_? What the _hell_, man?"

Sam flinches back, then immediately squares his shoulders and his eyes narrow, his whole body tensing. "I'm fine…" he mumbles through clenched teeth.

He is so obviously _not_ fine that Dean wants to reach over and shake some fucking sense into him. "How blind do you think I am?"

Sam blinks and his expression changes into a confused frown. "Blind? What—" he breaks off, raises a hand to his head and blinks again. "I hit my head, Dean, I'll live…"

Dean is back to staring incredulously at him. "I think you did a little more than that. You want to tell me what this is all about?"

Sam looks utterly confused, as if he has no idea what Dean is talking about. "What? That was called exercise. You should try it sometimes." He starts moving slowly, getting to his feet and moving around, searching the room for something, one arm still wrapped protectively around his torso.

Dean can't stop staring. "Exercise… Sam, are you nuts? You're hurt, I know you broke your ribs, why the hell— are you _nuts_?"

Sam finally finds a bottle of pills, squinting at the small label on it. "C'mon, since when have any of us let a little thing like an owie get in the way?" He shrugs at the bottle and starts to turn, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. But he's moving too fast for his dazed head and staggers, even starts to fall as his feet get tangled in the clothes on the floor.

Dean's moving fast, too, he's out of his crouch and tries to catch his brother, cursing when Sam sags heavily against him— only to have Sam shove him away in the next moment, turning his back on Dean and promptly swaying again.

"Sam, stop it!"

Sam turns to him, slower this time, tries to focus on him.

"I can't please any of you, can I?"

His voice sounds so tired and sad that Dean hesitates briefly, before he reaches out and takes a hold of the arm that isn't curled around Sam's middle. "What are you talking about?"

Sam just blinks at him, not flinching back, but not moving either.

"At least sit down…" Dean tries to pull Sam toward the bed and is almost surprised when his brother goes along, wincing at every movement.

"What am I talking about? You're the one who barged in here, telling me to stop doing… something…" He trails off and stops moving, his eyes roaming the room absentmindedly, before he turns and focuses on Dean again. "I don't know what you want? I don't know what any of you want of me anymore…"

Confused eyes search Dean's, but before he can answer Sam sways and his legs fold, sending him slumping to the floor, missing the bed by inches. He gives a strangled croak of pain and curls in on himself, arms wrapped around his middle as he tries to catch his breath.

Dean can no longer hide that Sam is freaking him out, part of what's wrong with him has to do with the concussion, he knows that, but there's something else, something Sam usually buries deep and won't talk about. He watches his brother for a moment, not really sure if he wants to take advantage of his confused state of mind and he shouldn't, he really, really should _not_ do that. But if he doesn't, if he keeps his mouth shut and just ignores it Sam won't bring it up again and he'll never find out what's really bugging him.

Sam gives a muffled groan and Dean moves to crouch down in front of him. "Sam? Sam, can you hear me? You with me?"

He ducks his head, trying to look into Sam's eyes, check their reaction, but Sam winces away.

"Dude, knock it off…"

Sam winces again as the moving pulls at his ribs and Dean feels his insides clench worriedly when he realizes Sam's started bleeding again, fresh blood is flowing from his nose and dripping on his shirt. He reaches out and grabs Sam's chin, slowly forcing him to look up. "How many fingers?" he asks, holding out three and watching how Sam's eyes sluggishly track the movement for a moment before he pulls away again.

"Fingers? What?" Sam squints at him, then looks back at his hand, looking completely and utterly lost.

"How many?" Dean tries again, starting when Sam pushes his hand back with a growl.

"I don't care!" Sam all but shouts at him, then grimaces, eyes squeezing shut in obvious pain. "Fuck…" he groans hoarsely, leaning back against the bed. And then, as if he doesn't remember his outbreak at all, which Dean would bet is the case, he blinks at him, tries to focus. "How's dad? He was hurt, right?"

Jeez, concussions, gotta love them…

Dean can barely suppress a deep sigh, feels his worry change into familiar anger at being powerless and not able to really help his brother and he snaps at him, unable to hold back.

"Yes, Sam, he was hurt and right now you're not helping." He takes hold of Sam's arm and prepares to stand. "Come on, get up."

Sam studies him and for a moment he seems completely normal, focused, _worried_. He struggles to get up, leans heavily against Dean for a moment before he shifts and takes his own weight, swaying slightly. "'m sorry," he mumbles, running a bloody sleeve over his nose and slowly sitting down on the bed. "I'm okay, I'm good… just… got foggy there for a moment…" He frowns, looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time, looks up at Dean. "I'm okay. Go, help dad, I'm good." He even sits up straighter to prove his point and that's so much his freaking, stubborn pigheaded SOB of a brother that it makes Dean's blood pressure rise.

"Yeah, you're good, I can see that…" Dean takes a deep breath and looks around the room, gaze falling to the side of the bed and the bloodstain on the floor next to it. "Sam, get up, we need to patch you up, look at your ribs, clean you—"

"I'm FINE!" The angry snarl takes him completely by surprise and he whips around to find his brother staring at him, the same anger from before burning brightly in his eyes. Dean draws back reflexively, raising his arms in defense and landing on his ass for the second time that night.

And explodes, shouting back at a growling Sam. "What the fuck is wrong with you, you have _rabies_ or something?"

It's a joke, not a very good one. He'd been appalled at the viciousness in Sam's eyes and he doesn't do scared very well. Sam should know, Sam _would_ know it's a fucking joke that isn't even funny. If he had just shut his friggin' mouth and let Dean look at his ribs then Dean wouldn't have said anything at all. Besides, they've said worse things to each other. Things you'd normally have to kill the other for just to protect your honor.

And Sam in his right mind would have seen that, would have had a witty comeback and left it at that.

The problem is, this isn't Sam in his right mind, this isn't even Sam in any kind of mind. His brother doesn't do openly angry over physical wounds, he doesn't scowl, and he sure as hell doesn't snap at Dean… at least not with his teeth. But Sam is not himself. Even now, quiet, Sam looks at him, simply looks at him, and for one single moment Dean sees Sam's eyes change, lose their focus, grow distant as he stares at something only he can see. And Dean knows that, however this concussion might be screwing with Sam's memories, this isn't something that will be forgotten once his brother wakes up the next morning.

Then Sam shudders…and seems to come back to himself. But there's a tense silence now between them, he can literally feel how Sam's closing himself off. Terrific.

"If you're so fine you should get up and clean your face."

Sam blinks and begins to drag himself up, painfully, gasping for breath a couple of times, but making it to his feet, unaided. He starts to head toward the bathroom, unsteadily, doesn't look back. Dean watches him, thinks about following him, but doesn't, stares at the bathroom door as it swings shut behind his brother's back. The door isn't closed, but he can't see Sam anymore, only hears him moving slowly around the small room.

The silence stretches between them until he swears he can feel it suffocating him. He clears his throat awkwardly, relieved that Sam can't see him right now.

"You really don't remember anything?" Dean calls out to the closed door. "How Dad hit his head?"

He can't stop the relieved breath he takes when Sam's voice sounds, muffled, almost too low to be heard over the running water. At least his brother isn't closing himself off completely.

"I told you, I remember… the big bastard… and he smelled… just nasty. Dead. And I remember getting… panicky… and getting kicked… and… _oh god_…"

Sounds of pained retching follow and Dean is at the bathroom door before he's even aware that he's moving. He nudges it open and looks down at where Sam is on his knees in front of the toilet, back convulsing every so often as he is sick. Once it passes he slowly opens his eyes and paws at the handle for the flush, fighting to catch his breath.

"My head hurts…" It's barely a whisper and Sam doesn't move from his spot on the floor.

"Yeah, you hit it, genius…" Dean says, with no real heat behind the words, and enters the small room, careful not to step on any body parts in his way. "You ready to lie down now?"

"Is Dad okay?"

Worried, dizzy eyes blink up at him and Dean sighs softly, bends down to help his brother to his feet, slowly. "He's resting… he's going to be okay."

"You sure?" Sam is swaying on his feet, holding on to him to keep upright. And that's the moment where Dean realizes that not only does he have to calm his upset brother down but he also is going to be stuck with him all night. Stuck with a Sam who is having enough mood-swings to make a teenage girl jealous. Awesome.

He can't deny being a little irritated that now Sam is so extremely worried about their father after being so pissed at him only moments ago, but that's probably the concussion messing with Sam's head. He decides to leave it at that. "Yes, I'm sure. You're going to be okay, too, remember where the bed is?"

They leave the bathroom, slowly, one step after the other. Sam is leaning heavily on him, but he doesn't seem to realize it, he's squinting around the room, lost in thoughts as it seems. He starts mumbling something under his breath, then stops moving suddenly, turning to Dean.

"I didn't hurt him, did I?" For a moment Sam almost sounds panicked, but then he shakes his head slowly, continuing his monologue. "No, I can't, he ordered me… Same as he ordered me not to come near him…" Sam's gaze starts roaming the room, comes to rest on the blood stain next to the bed. "I couldn't help him…" His voice drops to a whisper and Dean has to lean in a little to understand him. "That thing was right there… and I couldn't help him—BASTARD!"

The last word is an angry shout and Dean flinches. He isn't sure if Sam is talking about their dad or the thing that attacked them and decides he doesn't want to know. He does, however, want to keep him talking, hopes that maybe Sam might remember something if he just repeats what's going through his messed up mind. "Why did he order you away, Sam?"

They are moving toward the bed now, still slowly and more than once Dean has to catch him a little and correct the direction they are swaying into, but then Sam stops walking and blinks at him.

"I don't know…" Sam takes a deep breath and all the angry tension seems to leave him with a soul deep tired sigh. "Why does he order me to do anything? I don't get asked…" He slowly lowers himself to the bed and puts his head in his hands, not looking up. "I never get asked… and now…" He swallows hard, almost chokes the next words out, "… and now I can't even _help_…"

Dean feels like he has been punched. "Dad was trying to save you…" he mumbles distractedly, because that has to be it, their dad wouldn't do something like that if he didn't have his reasons.

Sam doesn't agree with him, he huffs tiredly and looks up at him, sad eyes focusing on him for a moment. "By making me watch him _die_?"

Dean immediately recoils at that thought, snapping at his brother without really meaning to. "He didn't die, Sam, he did _not_ die!"

Sam shrugs, gaze dropping back to the floor. "Sure as hell not thanks to me…"

And there it is, another crack in the not exactly solid relationship that his brother and his father have. Dean has no idea how to handle it, this is between the two of them, after all, and not really his problem. Except that he does have to deal with the ugly outcome every time they fight and that _does_ somehow make it his problem… But right now, with both of them concussed and not really in control of their higher brain functions, he should probably leave it alone and deal with it when they wake up the next day. Or, you know, just ignore it and hope they forget about it…

"It's not you, Sam, you know he—he has his reasons…" Yeah, this is lame, but, right now, he just wants to calm his brother down, get him into bed and make him rest.

Sam doesn't look up. "Everybody has reasons… and no one has solutions… and…" He shifts slightly, then winces, a hand going up to his head. "Fuck, I _hurt_…"

Enough of this. "You're just tired, you need to get some rest."

Sam nods slowly, looks up at him. "Yeah, I'm okay, you can go back to Dad now… he needs you."

Dean sighs, this is Sam, wanting him out of the room and as much as Dean would like to give him some freedom he knows he can't. "No, Bobby is with him, he's keeping an eye on him…" He fights to let his lips curl into a grin he doesn't really feel, "You know the rules, you wanted that concussion, now you have me for the rest of the night."

Sam sags a little, looking down again. "I can keep myself company, Dean, I won't fall asleep." He makes a show of looking around for a second, tries to grin as well, though it comes out more like a grimace. "I lost my pills somewhere…"

Dean shakes his head again and sits down at the chair by the window without saying anything, watching quietly as Sam watches him back.

"What?" The anger from before is gone from Sam's voice, he sounds just tired now.

"Nothing, go to sleep, I'll wake you up…"

Sam pulls a face. "Dude, that sounded… dumb…"

Dean grins half-heartedly, leaning back and trying to get a little comfortable. "Yeah, right, can't walk straight but you have to make fun of me now, huh?"

Sam keeps watching him. "Only you can be lame enough that even a concussion patient can outthink you…"

Dean rolls his eyes at that, watching his brother how he is still not lying down, even though he's blinking constantly now and rocking unsteadily on the bed. "Funny. Lie down, Sam, sleep."

Sam looks up at him, his eyes narrowing as he echoes his tone. "Roll over… sit up_. Beg_." The last one is said with a snarl and it makes him wince. For a moment Dean isn't sure if Sam is angry at _him_ now, or just generally pissed at the world.

"Sam…" he begins, but his brother holds up a hand to interrupt him.

"Don't… okay? Just… don't…" Sam takes a breath deep enough it makes him grimace in pain and he looks around the room again, getting to his feet slowly.

Dean glares at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Sam sways, turns to look at him like he has forgotten him for a moment. "I need to move, do… _something_, I can't just keep sitting here…"

There it is, the trapped look Sam gets sometimes, like he wants to take off, run away and never come back. And Dean knows that's exactly what Sam longs to do but that won't solve anything and his brother has to see that… and why the hell is Sam kneeling down on the other side of the bed now?

"Sam, don't you dare…" he growls in a warning tone. "You lie down and get some rest, that's all you need to do right now."

"Quit ordering me around!" Sam snaps at him without looking up at him and starts to stretch out. The idiot is getting ready to work out again…

Dean can barely keep himself in check, this is getting ridiculous, even for Sam. He gets up and walks toward the bed. "Sam, I'm not ordering you, but you're not thinking straight, you have a concussion, you need to lie down!" He takes a step closer when Sam simply ignores him and starts doing push-ups again. "Don't make me punch you out!"

Sam huffs at that. "Good. Great, punch a head trauma…" He keeps pushing up and down, up and down, and even though his face is scrunched up in pain and getting paler with every movement, he doesn't stop. And that's seriously starting to piss Dean off.

"You're hurting yourself, I don't see a reason why I shouldn't!" He snaps and really, punching him out suddenly does seem like a sensible alternative right now.

"Of course you don't…"

And then his nose starts bleeding again and that's _it_, Dean moves to grab him and luckily Sam's concussion is working against him, because before his brother even realizes what he is doing Dean has pulled him to his knees, holding him upright and growling in his ear. "Stop it."

Sam flinches away from the touch and Dean lets him go, watching as his brother sits back until he is slumped against the wall, arms wrapped around his chest. He's glaring in Dean's direction, not really focusing, and his breath comes in wheezing gasps. "Can't you… just let me… have this?"

To be honest, Dean feels as freaked as Sam looks at the moment and he tries to calm down, forcing himself to sound reasonable. "No, Sam, you're concussed, confused, you need to stop hurting yourself…" As an afterthought he adds, "It's not an order, okay? It's… common sense."

Sam gives a ragged laugh, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, right, because my life makes so much sense." He fights hard to take a deep breath and then continues in a low voice, "Go check on Dad, will you? And let me know how he's doing…" His words are bitter despite the low volume and Dean realizes he is hurt that he can't do it himself. Not that it would take a genius to interpret the sad look in his brother's squinted eyes.

"Sam, whatever happened there he didn't do it to _hurt_ you…"

"Of course not, he never does, he just never thinks about my side…"

"That's not true."

"Right, I must be wrong. Again." Sam nods slowly to himself and lets his head sink against the wall, looking utterly defeated. "You're right, I'm sorry, I just… It doesn't matter." He gets up without another word and lies down on the bed, turning his back on Dean.

And that's just… wrong, so not _Sam_ that Dean feels himself wince. He has no idea what to do now, whose side to take. If there's one thing he knows about their father it's the fact that he would do _anything_ to protect his brother, both of them, and that is actually something he feels very okay with. However the fight had gone, whatever his Dad decided it was said or done to protect Sam and keep him safe.

On the other hand he can't even imagine how hard it must have been for Sam to have to stand by, not being able to do anything while their Dad had been in danger, had almost been killed in front of his eyes. Dean knows _he_ would go crazy if something like that happened to him and he sure as hell couldn't forgive whoever for holding him back.

"Get some rest, we'll talk later…" he mumbles softly, but there's no reaction from the bed. Sam has shut him out, drawing back into himself. He's doing that a lot lately and Dean can't really blame him. He wants so badly to help, but he has no idea how. He knows it's between Dad and Sam and that they have to find a way to deal with it, but this whole exchange is just another example of how it always falls back on him. Sam is hurt, in more ways than one, won't let him get close to check and Dean's talking out his ass to calm him down. And totally saying the wrong things.

He takes a deep breath and sighs softly, reaching over to turn off the light.

Damned, fucked up hunt.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Not much to say this time, glad it's done. Comments are very much appreciated.

Thanks go to **Ghost** for holding my hand, talking me down, getting the boys to make sense again and ALWAYS realizing why I'm stuck and how to make it better. I don't think I can ever make it up to you, you're brave enough to listen to the weird thoughts in my head AND make sense of them, you deserve an award! :D

* * *

_Now there's no rolling back, I'm aching to attack  
My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out_

**Howl  
**Florence and the machine

"Dad?"

The voice is low, familiar. The only reason it doesn't send him straight into hunter's mode is the knowledge that he isn't quite up for more than groaning quietly in response. He blinks tiredly and forces his heavy head to lift from where it had been leaning against the pillow.

Dean is standing at the open door to his room, looking over at him. Behind him, the first rays of early morning sunlight are highlighting various cars in the parking lot, bouncing off the metallic surfaces and hitting John straight in the eyes. It sets off a stabbing pain at the back of his head and he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away. The movement makes him feel nauseated and he clenches his teeth against it, cursing inside his head.

Dean is talking again. Even though he's close, his voice sounds as if it is coming from far away. Whatever he's saying is lost to the sound of blood rushing through John's veins as he tries to move his body into a sitting position. He chances a glance at the door and when his head doesn't explode from the bright light he tries to focus on his son, letting his raised eyebrows ask a question his mind can't quite form yet.

"I said you look like death warmed over— you feeling any better?"

Dean's words are not in synch with his lips and that disorientates him. Long after Dean's mouth stops moving John can still hear his voice, but at least the words make sense now. He watches his son for a moment, his scrambled brain-cells wondering distractedly when Dean had found the time to dye his hair _yellow_. He hopes to God it's only the light playing tricks on his sleepy eyes.

"I'm fine…" he grunts finally. To prove his words he sits up a little straighter on the bed, hissing when that pulls at all the wrong muscles.

"Do you know where you are?" Dean has taken a step into the room and is leaning against the door frame now, studying him. He's following the protocol of how to treat a concussion patient, asking questions to gauge his mental state. John doesn't have to take a look around, the answer to this question is always the same.

"Motel," he mumbles, tipping his head back a little and closing his eyes briefly. Damn, he's tired.

"Remember the date?"

The voice is getting closer, but Dean is not moving from his space at the door. John hopes it means his hearing is starting to get better. He doesn't remember the date, but that's not saying anything about his mental state at all, he's always needed his journal as a reference for this. He's pretty good with the days of the week, though, and it only takes a second to do the math.

"Thursday, two days after we got here…" he says, sitting up slowly and rubbing his hand across his face in an attempt to brush the dizziness away.

Dean is still watching him from the door, a hint of worried playfulness creeping into his voice as he asks the question he always asks at that point.

"What kind of car do I drive?"

John squints at him, trying to get him into focus, fighting hard to keep a straight face and not let the pain show on his features.

"The kind of car I can still take away from you if you don't keep it clean."

The pain is making him irritable, he shifts again to get some of the pressure off his side, rolling his eyes when he hears Dean chuckle softly.

"You can always try, old man," Dean challenges him lightly, and then sobers a little. "Listen, I'm gonna run to the drugstore, pick up a few things, you need anything?"

Actually, a new head would be awesome.

"I'm fine," John says out loud and decides to take some painkillers as soon as Dean's gone.

His son gives him an: _I know exactly how you're feeling and you're _not_ fine—_look and then leaves with a muttered, "Be back in a few." The door clicks shut behind him and John takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

He is so tired he can barely think straight. The concussion isn't helping, he feels like he's been awake for twenty-four hours straight without any rest at all. The pain meds had worn off sometime during the night, leaving him to spend the rest of it drifting on and off. His ribs had complained no matter which way he had turned. At one point he'd been so desperate to escape the constant throbbing he'd tried getting up and moving a few steps. But, of course, that hadn't helped. The only good thing it _had_ done was to drive Bobby from the room and into his own, leaving John to a lone night filled with pain, memories… and more pain.

The hunt wouldn't leave him alone; he couldn't stop thinking about it. He is still hazy about the details, but his mind keeps irritating him with flashes of memories: vampire teeth, wolf-fangs, the sensation of flying through the air, hitting trees and breaking bones, mixed with the smell and taste of his own blood and snarls, threats, cries of _pain_—

Sam.

That's always the first thing on his mind when he remembers that one cry, flashing back to see the wolf crash into the tree and then crumple to the ground. His memory stops there, every time, the last thing he sees are trembling paws twitching weakly against the muddy earth and then— and then _nothing_, the screen goes black. He's left with a racing heart thudding painfully against his hurting ribs and the overwhelming need to protect his kid. Twice he's found himself standing at the door after a flashback, hand on the knob to open it and go over to look after his son.

He's never left the room, though; he hasn't even turned the knob. For one, it was in the middle of the night—or early morning that second time—and he'd only have woken the kid. Dean is with him, keeping an eye on his brother. If Sam had been anything but as best as can be expected considering the circumstances, John would have been the first to know.

The other part of him, the tinier voice at the back of his mind— _the hunter_— is worried about something completely different. A hunt gone bad, mistakes he'd made and couldn't remember, couldn't learn from. And Sam, not his son but his _partner_, the one who had his back, who trusted him to make the right decisions, had gone _down, _had been _hurt_ because of John's choices. At least that's what the nagging feeling in his stomach keeps telling him. Something had gone wrong and it is his fault.

And then there is the thing that's been sneaking around his mind like a certain wolf on silent paws, something he has a very hard time admitting to himself. Over the years the world—_his_ world—has turned into a dark, hostile place; he doesn't feel save anywhere, always on the move, thinking three steps ahead, heading toward the big goal. Nothing's ever the same. He won't allow them to settle down for too long, it would make them vulnerable.

Predictable.

Sam has become the one constant of his life, the only person he's allowed himself to rely on. With Dean off on his own hunts, his youngest is always there, always with him. It's the curse that's forcing Sam to stay at his side, John knows that. Sam wouldn't be sticking around if he had a choice. And it kills him every time he has to watch his son struggle through the days, knowing they'll probably never find a cure. He knows what a tragedy his son's life has become. He never wanted that for Sam. Never. And still, despite the tension, the constant fight for the upper hand, the thin line between heartfelt irritation and grudging respect they are walking every day… John's grown so used to having him around, of sensing Sam's familiar presence close to him that, right now, not being able to check on him, see for himself that his son is alright, is making him feel edgy and restless.

Unprotected.

Open for attack.

It's not fair, it's _selfish_, it makes him weak when he should be strong and protecting his son. It's putting even more on Sam's shoulders when he's already struggling to keep moving despite the crap the curse is throwing at him on a daily basis.

But John has come to rely on Sam. And that not only means having your back protected during a fight but also looking after each other. Right now, his gut is telling him that something is wrong. Sam hasn't come over to check on him. It's not like him, no matter how tired or injured Sam was he would always make sure John was okay. Dean had told him Sam was laid up but _fine_, but—John was the one in those woods. He's the one who was there, saw what Sam went through, he was there to hear Sam _scream_ –

—_Sam hits the trunk of a tree behind him with a sickening crunching sound that forces a horrible mewling cry from his throat. He crumples to the ground, paws twitching weakly against the mud—_

He's at the door before he can see again. His vision tunnels dangerously and his legs chose that moment to turn into rubber. He sags against the door for a moment to find his balance, takes as deep a breath as he can and opens the door. He sways out onto the porch, clinging to the wall as he waits for his equilibrium to catch up with him. The cool morning air hits him like a punch to the chest, making his lungs seize up in protest against the chill and he can't suppress a cough which, in turn, causes his ribs to shriek in agony. He's winded, and he hasn't even taken more than a few steps. When the hell has it become so fucking hard to _walk_?

The next door down is open. The room is dark and quiet. And smaller than the one John's been staying in, one bed, a table at the window, a TV attached to the wall, a bathroom door at the other end. It smells of the usual cleaners, a sharp, chemical scent that doesn't quite cover the smell of blood and disinfectants. He stops for a moment, letting his tired eyes adjust to the darkness.

"Sam?"

He keeps his voice low so as not to startle him, but the room stays quiet, there is no answer.

And that's… odd. Sam has always been a light sleeper, even before the curse he'd wake at most sounds. But now, with the wolf inside him always on guard, always watching out, this awareness has been heightened to a point where Sam wakes up even when people walk past outside their door. Sneaking up on him is next to impossible these days. They've gotten used to it. John stopped going for his gun every time Sam jerks awake, and, most of the time, Sam doesn't even rouse all the way – just mutters something incomprehensible before he turns and falls back asleep. This lack of reaction, now, stirs a familiar feeling of unease deep in John's gut and he hurries inside, hand searching blindly for the light switch.

It's a mistake. As soon as the lamp flares to life and sears across his retinas he sways, has to put a hand out against the wall to keep upright. The resulting headache almost sends him to his knees. He leans his aching head against the wall, fighting hard against the sudden wave of nausea that starts creeping up his throat.

"Dad?"

The groggy voice is almost drowned out by the rhythmic beating inside his head and he gives a muffled groan, taking one, two, three deep breaths before he turns toward the bed. Slowly.

Sam is blinking up at him, one hand raised to block out the light, the rest of his body hidden completely beneath the covers. Instead of his usual lazy, comfortable sprawl across the mattress, he's curled up tight around his ribs, facing the door. There are white lines of pain around his mouth, and John's chest aches. He hates to see his boys hurt.

It takes Sam way too long to focus on John's face and at some point Sam seems to give up and lets his head drop back onto the pillow. John takes the quiet as an invitation, and, frankly, he kind of has to. The cold is getting into his aching skull and ribs, and he isn't sure he can make it back to the other room on his own right now.

"How are you feeling?" He closes the door behind him and moves stiffly toward the table at the window. Sam rolls his head toward him and glares at him through one eye.

"'m fine…" Sam grumbles moodily. His eyes are still closed, though, and John sighs, starting toward him.

It only takes a step. One step closer to the table, and Sam gasps in a breath, jerking himself up with less than graceful movements. It's just the wolf in him, is John's first thought. A reaction to being approached while half-asleep, but somewhere in the back of his mind, alarms are going off. "Sam?"

He takes another step, and Sam suddenly flinches, sucking in a pained breath and tensing beneath the covers. Before John can do anything, Sam rolls to the opposite side of the bed in a move so abrupt it makes his muscles seize up on him. Sam crumples to the floor and curls in on himself, groaning.

John is stunned for a second, but then he's moving toward the bed, his own pain completely forgotten.

"What is it?" he asks, coming around the bed so he can see his son, only to freeze when Sam cries out again and flinches back from him, starting to shiver violently.

"Go—" Sam gasps hoarsely, pushing himself up. His body is moving in odd little jerks, like a badly worked puppet. He tries to get to his feet but crumples to the ground before he was ever upright, his shoulder hitting the wall in front of him with a dull thud that forces a miserable groan out of him.

John wants to follow, needs to do something, _help_ him, but before he can move Sam growls at him, actually _growls_ at him, the sound so vicious, so _dangerous_ John flinches back before he can stop himself.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" John snaps, panic lending a sharp edge to his voice.

Sam moves again, literally _crawling_ away from him, until he's wedged against the far wall, in the space beside the bed. He moves backward until there is no more room to move – and even then, his legs keep pushing, shoving him into the drywall so hard John can see the muscles trembling. "_You!_" Sam snarls, turning his head so he can glare at John, even though his sight seems to be so blurry he can't focus. "You—" he repeats, gasping in a desperate breath, "fucking order— I can't be near you! It hurts! Back off, _dammit_!"

John stumbles to his feet as fast as he can, sways a step back, then the next, stumbling as far away from Sam as he can in the small room. His back hits the wall next to the television and the impact sends a stab of white, hot agony through his side that almost sends him to his knees. Across from him Sam suddenly slumps down, falling from the wall into a crumpled heap on the floor. He looks so miserable that John is no longer sure if the nauseous feeling rolling through him is coming solely from his swimming head.

He did that to his kid. Made Sam move, made him _hurt_, just by walking in. He should have remembered what Dean had told him the night before, how Sam had to stay away from him. How could he be so _stupid _—

They stare at each other across the room, both breathing heavily, in pain, both curled around their ribs.

"You okay?" John finally manages to ground out between clenched teeth and Sam huffs out a bitter laugh, glaring at him again.

"No," he growls. "Take it back …" and he's half angry, and half desperate, and full out pleading.

And it rips through John with more pain than his ribs have ever offered.

John straightens—and regrets it immediately. His vision wavers, black dots appear at the edge, the sounds around him disappear gradually… He sways, again, reaching out for the wall, for something stable, fighting to stay on his feet.

Sam makes a sound and moves, but John's eyes are too blurry to make out what he is doing. He hears him starting to talk, voice getting louder.

"—you dare pass out on me—"

Dizzily he tries to remember, there is something he has to do, something— the _order_. He has to—Sam can't—

"—have to take it back or I can't help you!"

The world does a flip and John's knees hit the ground. The impact jars his body so hard it makes his lungs freeze up on him. Again. Sam is crouching on the floor, staring at him, his eyes—

"Dad!"

— the order—

"Take it the fuck back, NOW!"

Sam is yelling now, in a panic, and John's failing hearing is making his voice sound uncharacteristically shrill. He has to act, _now_—

"Get over here—" John gasps. He has no idea if that will work, if it's enough to cancel the order. He wants it, he _needs_ it to be enough.

And then he is falling, automatically stretching out one arm to try and keep him from hitting the floor face first. He tips – and there's a pained wheezing right next to his ear, and someone is dragging him—

When the world stops swaying and his mind crawls back into the land of the conscious he's lying on something soft. For a moment he relishes in the absence of nausea and keeps his eyes closed. He feels warm, which is an improvement, there's a light weight on his chest—blanket—and his ribs are no longer shrieking in agony. As long as he doesn't move he will be fine. Sleeping sounds like an option right now, maybe he should—

"You feeling better?" The voice comes from his right, low, familiar and tight with an emotion he can't quite place. He doesn't want to move his head, or even open his eyes, but he needs to see Sam to figure out what's up with him.

His son is twisted up in the chair at the window, hunched over, looking both tired and in pain. He has changed into sweats and his black hoodie, the one with the zipper so obviously, John's missed something. He is watching John closely, and even though his vision isn't working right he can make out enough to tell his son is pale and trembling. Sam looks ready to keel over any second and any urges John might have had to go to sleep are instantly forgotten.

"What happened?" John asks, surprised as to how shaky and hoarse his voice sounds.

Sam stares at him. "You're an asshole", he says, voice serious. Then, after a pause that doesn't bring up more than John's eyebrows in reaction, Sam says, "You passed out on me. You feeling any better?"

He is, he is feeling better and he nods slowly, careful not to set his head aching again. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good." Sam doesn't sound particularly happy about it. He crosses his arms in front of him, thrusting his chin upward a little, his gaze never leaving John's face. There's an unspoken challenge in the air and John has no idea what to make of it. He studies his son, then decides to keep his calm and go on slowly.

"Asshole, huh?" he offers as an opening, hoping not to sound as irritated as he feels. Irritation on his part usually pisses Sam off like nothing else since it means John has missed something Sam thinks he shouldn't have.

Sam nods. "Yes."

John shifts a little, trying to sit up. "What did I do this time?"

It's the wrong thing to say. Sam gives him a glare that has John's hackles up within a second.

"Don't act like you don't know!" Sam spits out and John holds up his hand before Sam can go on.

"For a second remember that I have a freaking concussion and pretend I don't know."

"How could you do that to me?" It explodes out of Sam like a shot and John winces at the force behind the words.

"Do what?" he snaps back, feeling his own anger build.

Again, not the right answer, Sam's mouth drops open and he stares at him in disbelief.

"Are you kidding me?"

John takes a deep breath, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his side. "I don't remember much about the hunt," he admits slowly. "There are bits and pieces in my head, but most of it—it's gone." Sam will understand that, they both have enough first-hand experience with short time memory loss due to a head injury. "What did I do?"

Sam takes a deep breath and fights to calm down. The intensity of his accusing glare doesn't change, though, if looks could kill John would no longer have anything to worry about.

"You told—you _ordered_ me to stay away."

John waits, he knows that much now, but there has to be more… "And?" he prods when Sam stays silent.

"And?" Sam echoes, incredulous. "You go down on a _hunt_, the monster is about to _kill_ you—and you're ordering me to stay away?"

John stares at him, tries to remember, tries to conjure up the relating pictures in his head—and fails. There's nothing there.

Sam mistakes the pause for—something that makes him even more furious and his voice rises, cutting through the air angrily. "I had to _watch_ that thing getting ready to _rip your throat out_ and I couldn't do a fucking thing about it because you had fucking told me to stay away!"

He would be pacing by now if he wasn't injured so badly, underlining his words with emphatic movements and gestures. But he's not… he's just sitting there, watching John with icy, angry eyes. Seeing him this motionless makes the hair at the back of John's neck stand up because it's wrong. He holds up a hand, wants him to stop, only for a moment, he needs to think. "Listen—"

"No, I'm not listening anymore, you can't do this to me, Dad, I can't—I just—I can't—" Sam's tone changes, where he had been growling and yelling angrily before he now sounds as if he is choking on something. "I can't take this crap anymore…" he breaks off and starts to struggle to stand up, curling even more into himself but moving, hobbling away from the table.

"Sam—"

Sam flinches, takes another step away from him.

"No." He shakes his head, which sends him stumbling a little, but he ignores it, voice unwavering. "No more, Dad, no more of this…"

"I was trying to save you—" John starts, because he was, he has no idea what else happened, but this he knows, this he _knows_ without a doubt.

Sam whirls on him, moves so fast he has to steady himself against the wall. "By making me watch you _die_? I saw you go down, that—that thing was going after you and I could have done something to _protect_ you—"

"That thing was a vampire, Sam, a fucking bloodsucker, if you had got that blood inside you, you would have been turned!"

Sam's eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side. "So it's okay for you to die protecting me but I'm not allowed to do the same?"

John feels his insides clench and his pulse speeds up as his body tenses and his muscles start quivering with tension. "No! You can't! Because I'm your father! And who the hell would have had to take care of you if you did get infected?"

Sam's eyes flash dangerously in response. "I'm the one who couldn't do fuck to save your sorry ass, you have any idea how _that_ feels like?"

"What the hell—"

It takes John a moment to realize they are no longer alone, Dean is standing in the open door. He's holding a cup of coffee and a paper bag, looking at over at him and Sam, eyebrows raised in question.

"You really need to do this? Here? _Now_?"

John huffs drily, throwing him a glare. _Back off._

"This is none of your business," he growls and across from him Sam squares his shoulders.

Dean rolls his eyes and walks over to the table, putting the bag and the cup down.

"Like hell it isn't…"He turns to look at them, shaking his head irritably. "In case you haven't noticed you're both not firing on all cylinders right now, you need to _rest_!"

"He blacked out for a minute," Sam says, nodding his chin at John. _Telling_ on him. To his _son_. This is beyond ridiculous…

Dean studies John for a moment before he looks back at Sam.

"So did you, before I left," Dean says. "So I include you. _Rest._"

Sam tenses and John thinks he's going to protest as it is his nature, but before he can even open his mouth Dean's talking again, pointing first at John, then at Sam.

"You up. You down. _Both_ of you shut the hell up."

John needs a moment to realize Dean wants him to move. He thinks about putting his foot down and ending the confrontation with Sam right now, but Dean is right, his head is pounding so hard he can barely concentrate. He takes a deep breath and sits up slowly, clenching his teeth against a wave of dizziness that sends his vision swimming. He has no idea how he makes it to his feet, Dean doesn't help him but he can sense him close to him, following him to the door.

Dean is talking to Sam at some point, it sounds like an order and there's a low answering grumble.

And then they're outside and he holds his breath so that the cold air doesn't knock him back this time. He sways, reaches out for the wall and then Dean is next to him, slipping in beneath his left shoulder and helping him keep his balance. Cold changes into warmth and then he's sitting down on something soft. Dean starts talking to him, but he is too tired to listen, he doesn't even notice when sleep finally takes him.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**: Uhm... Sorry it took so long, this has been a bitch to write and have fun reading it. That's it, I guess. Comments are more than welcome, they totally make my day! :)

Thanks go to my beta **ghostfour**. *does happy dance because she is BACK* for once again holding my hand, clearing my messes and being the awesome person that she is. I would have stopped working on this story ages ago if it wasn't for her, she brought me back on track when I totally lost my way and couldn't even remember how I had planned to end this story. I know I did that before, but I'm doing it again because her help really means a lot to me, so... this story is dedicated to my **Ghosty**. With love and hugs and the biggest THANK YOU I've ever given to anybody. I love you, hun.

* * *

When he wakes up and opens his eyes, he feels… well. Not _fit_ or pulling-trees-out-with-his-bare-hands-strong, but _well_. Rested. Relaxed.

Safe.

The cabin had been a good idea. It's the first time in ages he could enjoy the luxury of sleeping in a bed that had actually been built to provide comfort and rest. And since there's nothing left for him to do but rest and heal, he'd taken advantage of that for the past few nights without feeling guilty about it. His body seems to agree with that decision, he had slept away most of the three days they had stayed at the cabin. The rest has done wonders for his concussion, for the first time ever since the attack his head doesn't pounding in protest when he opens his eyes. It even readjusts his vision properly so he can finally make out the finer details of the room.

Not that there is much see, a bed, a nightstand, a lone chair in the corner, some of his clothes strewn over the back of it, a floral painting on the wall and an antique closet at the far wall. Small but comfortable, just what he needs.

John takes a deep breath and stretches cautiously, blinking in the sunlight that is streaming through the window next to the bed. His skin is warm where the beams crawl across it and he enjoys the feeling, he feels no urge to move while he works on organizing his thoughts and memories.

He doesn't remember much about the time they had spent back at the motel. Dean and Singer had organized enough backup to finish the hunt, digging up three additional hunters who would work with them on the case. One of them was a vampire expert John met years ago who agreed to help. While they were waiting for the hunters to arrive at the motel, they'd checked the layout of the house, again, and the current number of bloodsucker that were hiding there.

John's contribution to those preparations was to stay out of their way and do his best to not pass out, while Sam spent most of the time in bed. His son was alternating between lying curled around his ribs and trying to sleep through pain that even their strongest pills couldn't numb completely— or being bored by crappy daytime television that had him dozing off on a regular basis. He never stayed asleep for long, though, on more than one occasion John watched him come awake with a panicked gasp and blink wildly around the room as if he was expecting an attack. Sam was having nightmares and John is willing to bet that they were about the fight with the vampire.

Physically and mentally neither of them was in any shape for a hunt.

When John could remember his middle name again without having to think about it too hard, he called in a favor from an old friend and found a remote cabin where he and Sam could lay low, lick their wounds and recover. Dean and Bobby had driven them, the older man taking John's truck since driving on his own had been out of the question, leaving the boys to follow in the Impala. The drive to the place was hell for both John and Sam. John's concussion flared so badly, Dean wouldn't even consider leaving them alone for the first night. Especially not after a white-faced Sam limped straight to the bathroom as soon as they had arrived and wasn't seen again for the rest of the evening.

But things had looked up after the first night of restful sleep. They both survived it intact, and shooed Dean and Bobby back to the motel on the next morning, reminding them that they had work to do. And then John and Sam spent the following days doing pretty much nothing at all.

The cabin is a cozy two-story-house at the edge of a forest. Two bedrooms upstairs, and a bathroom and a large living-area-slash-open-kitchen on the ground floor— complete with a fire place John has every intention of using as soon as he masters the stairs. His first try at getting himself something to eat had ended with him almost crashing down the stairs when his head started to spin crazily the moment he took the first step. Sam barely managed to catch him in time to avoid the fall— then ordered him to stay in bed. John had protested at first, but when Sam snapped at him that he wouldn't be able to carry him back up the stairs should John take a header, he relented and grudgingly accepted that his son would have to bring him food.

Sam has been quiet so far. They don't talk much, except for asking each other about their injuries. All in all they are kind of a matching pair. John's head had taken the most damage, slowing him down and causing him to feel dazed and out of synch with his environment all the time, but his ribs weren't plaguing him that much once the pain medication had dulled the pain to a constant, tolerable throbbing. Sam is the opposite, his head is fine, but he is moving like a man twice his age, hobbling through the house with less than graceful movements, one arm permanently curled around his ribs protectively. The upside of this is the fact that they don't have enough energy for an argument since both of them keep dozing off from the pain medication all the time.

Keeping in contact with Dean and Bobby is quite the adventure, the cell reception in the house is on and off in a weird inch-by-inch scale— you have a crystal clear connection if you are standing in the doorway to the kitchen, but as soon as you move into either direction your phone will drop the call immediately. John had talked to Dean the night before, and he'd said that the hunters were moving in for the kill today. And God knows John hates not being there, he hates leaving an unfinished hunt behind, but going with them in their condition would only put all of them in danger. Even Sam had given in to reason without too much grumbling about it and that tells him pretty clearly that they both aren't up for it.

His side starts to throb as if agreeing to him and John sighs softly, stretching his tired bones as best as he can before slowly getting out of bed. He grits his teeth when his cramped muscles seize up on him as soon as he is vertical and forces himself to keep moving through the first painful steps. Changing into his jeans and a shirt takes him longer than he is used to, but once he is dressed he feels stable enough to leave the room in search for caffeine. He pads across the small floor silently, concentrating on making as little sound as possible in order not to wake Sam. John passes his son's room and finds the door left ajar and the room empty, Sam is already up. Chances are pretty good then that there will be coffee waiting for him downstairs. Or, rather, whatever Sam tries to pass off as a decent imitation of it, no matter how his son keeps arguing about it, it's not supposed to taste like _that_…

The stairs are cold beneath his bare feet and he descends them slowly, extra-carefully to avoid angering his sore ribs. He is halfway down when he hears a soft noise coming from the living room. He turns the corner to see the TV running, some show he doesn't recognize. There's movement on the couch and a tousled head appears over the back of it. Sam blinks at him groggily, before he disappears again without saying a word. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, bathing the room in a bright, warm light and creating a relaxed, comfortable atmosphere. John lets his tired gaze wander across the room and feels something deep in his chest relax and settle down.

He walks over to the kitchen, pours himself a cup of something black and steaming and walks toward the living room, taking a sip and watching his son sleep on the couch. Sam is sprawled on his back across the length of it, dressed in a hooded jacket and faded sweats, face completely relaxed in sleep. The remote is resting on his chest and he shifts slightly, opening his eyes and staring blankly at John when he snatches it and sinks down into the armchair next to the couch. Sam blinks at him, once, and then closes his eyes again. Sipping his coffee, John settles in comfortably and starts switching the channels to find a news show. He leans back and listens to stories about a world that will never know the truth.

It's been too long since they've had a chance to take a break, he hasn't noticed it before—or flat out refused to acknowledge it—but the past few days (_weeks_) have made it pretty clear that they need a chance to rest and regroup. His gaze wanders toward the couch and he watches Sam sleep.

A high-pitched scream shocks him out of his observation and he flinches, gaze snapping to the TV-screen where a woman is screaming her head off while a sorry excuse for a monster is trying to kill her. Next to him, Sam comes awake with a soft gasp and blinks at the TV for a moment. When nothing happens, Sam blinks again and grunts, turning his head toward John and mumbling a question John can't really decipher.

"Morning," he says instead, taking a sip of his coffee and watching Sam take a look around the room. His son seems lost for a moment until his gaze drops to the fire place and he seems to remember where he is. Sam frowns and curls an arm around his ribs, then stretches cautiously, running a hand over his face, yawning. When he realizes he is being watched he looks at John.

"What?" he mutters and sits up slowly, rearranging his legs.

"How are your ribs?" John asks calmly, watching the slow, cautious movements.

"Better. How's the head?" Sam asks back and John feels his lips curl into a soft grin behind the mug. What a pair of invalids they are…

"Better," he echoes, watching as Sam stretches again, joints popping softly in protest.

"Dean called yet?"

"No."

Sam's not happy about that, but lets it go, leans back against the couch and watches the screen for a moment. A silence settles between them, but it's the first time in _months_ it's not heavy with anger or tension. John has almost forgotten what that feels like.

A few minutes later Sam gets up and heads for the kitchen, getting himself a cup of coffee and adding whatever it is that turns it into the sweet drink he loves so much. John expects him to disappear into the room upstairs and is mildly surprised when he doesn't but comes to the couch and sits down. They lapse back into the comfortable silence and watch the program.

He doesn't know where it comes from, but suddenly he finds himself thinking about how much he misses this, how much he longs to have his son back, the funny, confident, more or less care-free kid he lost the day the witch dug her claws into him. Their lives hadn't been ideal back then, but he would change back to those days without thinking about it. It's moments like this when he misses the old Sam almost as much as his wife. When he needs someone on his side for once, when he wants to give up responsibility for some time and just sit back and watch TV, talk about grandchildren and do whatever normal people do to have fun—

"Are you okay?"

The soft voice has him jerk his head up in surprise. Sam is looking at him, his expression closed and worried. John flinches inwardly, fighting hard to suppress a weary sigh. This is the reason he never thinks about this, this is exactly why he struggles so hard to keep it down and out of his head. Because he knows Sam will pick up on it, thanks to the curse, he knows his son will be able to sense how he is feeling; he can't hide that part of him anymore, not from Sam. And that pisses him off since it's none of Sam's business, he doesn't need to know how John feels about things, that's not something he is supposed to know.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Sam sees through the lie easily, and why wouldn't he, John has a pretty good idea what his son is picking up from him right now. Damned curse…

"What is it?"

Sam slowly sits up on the couch, crossing his arms in front of his chest. John shakes his head slightly and makes to get up, then hesitates when he sees Sam tense.

"I know this is about me." It's not a question. John doesn't need this right now and gets up.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Sam doesn't say anything, he just keeps staring at him, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing slowly. Getting ready to fight. John doesn't have the slightest idea why the mood is turning from relaxed to tense all of a sudden. And, frankly, he doesn't really care, not _now_.

"I'm going to take a shower." Maybe that will help against the tension-headache he can already feel creeping up on him.

Sam mutters something under his breath that he doesn't quite catch.

"What?"

"I won't do this anymore," Sam growls between clenched teeth and starts to turn away from him.

"What the hell is your problem?"

Sam freezes, turns back to him, eyes glaring. "You. You are my problem, this whole _we're not talking about this_ because you don't want to deal with it."

"I don't want to deal with _what_?"

"Anything. _Everything_. That you screwed up."

"I—_what_? What are you talking about?"

"The hunt, I'm talking about the hunt, Dad, about how you almost _died_ because you think you know what's best for me." Sam would be gesturing by now, it's irritating to see him sitting almost motionless as his voice rises in agitation.

"The hunt? The hunt is over, Sam, it's done."

Sam shakes his head. "No, it isn't, it isn't done just because you say so. It doesn't work like that."

"I don't need this right now…" He starts to walk toward the stairs, but Sam's angry words stop him.

"How convenient."

"What?" The word low, the tone dangerous, but John can't help it.

Sam snorts. "That you can just walk away whenever you want. That whatever you don't want to deal with you can leave behind. But guess what, Dad? I _can't_. And for once, I'm not going to let you either. You can't just walk away from this, not this time, it isn't over—"

"It is, Sam, it is over, it's done, I did what I had to do because I didn't want you to get hurt—_more_ than you already were… I didn't want you to get _killed_!"

Sam huffs, straightens his back, thrusts his chin out defiantly. "That's not _your_ decision to make!"

"Yes, Sam, it is, _you_ are _my_ son. I won't stand by and watch you get killed if I can help it—"

"That goes both ways, Dad— I can't get out there with you if you keep ordering me around like that… if you don't trust me—"

"I trust you!"

"No, you don't," Sam says tiredly, "you don't trust me enough to let me make my own decisions. And I can't—I won't live like that anymore. I can't let you make my life even worse than it already is..."

"And what then?" he shoots back at his son. "What are you going to do? We can't change it."

And that is the sad truth of it, that no matter how miserable either of them is, both of them are, this is their life now.

"Then I'll stop hunting… with you."

It's the first time Sam has actually said that, though John has suspected he's been thinking it for months. But saying it… is new. And a thin twist of fear winds through his gut.

"And then?" John hears himself ask arrogantly. Sam stops for a moment, he clearly has not been expecting that question and John stares at him angrily. "And then what, Sam? Settle down? Give up everything? Get a _normal_ life?"

One look at Sam's face tells him that's exactly what his youngest wants and they both know that it's never going to happen. Sam's face changes almost brutally, all hope is pushed aside and what's left is a tired, lost expression.

"I know that's not going to work. But this… this doesn't work either, I can't be like this for the rest of my life. I won't. You have to let me go, you have to let me make my own decisions."

"Like hell I do—you can't be on your own, Sam, and you know it. It's not your fault, but it's _my_ responsibility and you're not going anywhere until you're safe!"

"Don't you get it, that's never going to happen, this is never going to go away, there is no cure, no easy fix—"

"Maybe there is, maybe there isn't, but right now we don't have one so you're staying with me. Understood?" John barely keeps himself from turning this into an _order_ and turns, walking out of the room and away from his son. He refuses to look back. He can't change it, there is no reason to dwell on it.

* * *

They spend the rest of the morning avoiding each other and John dozes off somewhere around midday. He's dimly aware of Sam leaving the house at some point— hears him mutter something about going for a walk— but when he wakes up later he can hear Sam move around in his room. He decides to fix himself something to eat and scrounges the kitchen for the supplies Bobby and Dean had left them.

As he waits for the water to boil, he can't help flashing back on the argument. Now, while he's alone, he can admit it scares him. It's not the first time he's thought about where this situation might eventually lead, where he and his sons might end up. If he is honest with himself, which he actually tries to be sometimes, he is pretty sure that they won't ever find a way to break the curse— you can't lift it without the witch and every psychic they had talked to had told them the same thing, they couldn't lift it with her dead. Back when it had first happened, when they were still looking hard for a solution, even Missouri had told him Sam would have to find a way to live with it. But John had not wanted to hear that, too overcome by guilt to accept the fact that Sam might have to suffer for his fault forever. He'd sworn to her that he would find a way to save his son, had stomped out of her house with the boys trailing silently behind him. She hadn't tried to stop him, had watched them leave without saying a word, watching them from her open door with a sad smile on her face. John hasn't talked to her ever since, he can't stand the thought of her empathic glances, and, to be honest, he doesn't want to listen to her telling him to shut up and swallow his guilt and think about his son first—

"Dad?"

The strained voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he turns to look at Sam—and freezes.

Something is wrong. Sam is standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms curled around his chest, hunched over as if he is in pain, face pulled into a miserable frown. He's wearing jeans and his hair is dripping water into his face. Before John can say anything Sam flinches and gasps softly, curling a little more into himself.

"It's calling me again…" he gasps out.

John's stomach turns to ice. "Son of a bitch…" he grounds out, then reaches for his boy as Sam suddenly doubles over with a miserable groan and starts to pant softly. "What's it saying?" he asks urgently, resting his hand on top of Sam's shoulders to keep him upright.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and leans toward him with a long groan when the first spasms hit.

"_Come… to me_…" he forces out between clenched teeth, then cries out and goes down hard when his knees buckle. "Sonofa—" Sam starts miserably, but his throat closes up on him and he twists into a tight ball on the floor, shivering violently.

"Sonofa_bitch_."

John scans the room, but can't find anything amiss, the only sounds are Sam's increasing gasps for breath and miserable sounds of pain and the TV still running at a low volume. He can't do anything about the oncoming change, and so John hurries over to the front door and locks it, remembering Sam trying to get away the first time this happened. He closes the windows as well, wincing when Sam's sounds of pain stop abruptly and the awful sound of bones breaking fill the room. He can't see his son from where he is standing, Sam's hidden by the couch he had been sprawling on so peacefully only hours ago. John closes his eyes, jaw working to keep the curse back that wants to slip out. He runs through a mental list of what to do now and moves toward the doorway in the kitchen where his cell is lying on the counter. Carefully avoiding the twisting body he can see out of the corner of his eye, he grabs it and stares hard at the glowing display, waiting for the sign of reception to show up on the screen.

It doesn't. No matter where he turns and holds the phone he can't find it.

Crap.

Behind him the room suddenly falls silent for a moment, then there is the soft rustling of clothes, followed by claws clicking over the wooden floor. John turns to find the wolf limp around the couch, tail hanging down listlessly, eyes scanning the room slowly.

"Stay in the house, okay?" he says and the wolf eyes him for a second, then snorts and turns, limping toward the couch. As an afterthought John adds, "And don't keep changing back all the time, you hear me?"

The wolf doesn't react, just keeps moving toward the couch, goes around and sits down in front of the fireplace, tired eyes settling on John.

He tries to get reception a few more times, but there is no such luck, the cell stays annoyingly useless. He barely resists the urge to throw it on the floor and puts in on the counter instead.

They have no idea what is after Sam, they still don't know how it is able to influence him besides mental calls only Sam can hear and they have no idea how it found them, if it is even close, what it is, what it wants … They have nothing. And from the experience they've made earlier it's most likely going to get worse. Too soon Sam won't be able to sit down as relaxed as he is now.

"I'm gonna go and put down some salt lines upstairs," he says and Sam watches him silently, ears twitching in his direction but otherwise unmoving. John moves up the stairs as fast as he can and his head and the ribs allow, fetches the bag of salt they keep with the weapons and makes quick work of the lines.

He has just finished the line in Sam's room when the soft sound of claws clicking on the floor has him turn toward the door. Sam is standing in the doorway, body rigid, back and head lowered with the tail hanging down between the legs. His ears are laid back in a clear sign of distress and he doesn't really focus on John but seems to stare off into space as if he is concentrating on listening. The fact that the wolf actually climbed the stairs with broken ribs to come after him and be close to him is the clearest indication that he is worried.

"Is it getting closer?" John asks worriedly and the wolf eyes him briefly, before he gives a soft whine and flattens his ears against his head for a second, then goes back to listening. That's as close to a yes as John can hope to get.

He runs a nervous hand over his face. They have to find a way to protect Sam. He leaves the room and goes downstairs, salt-bag still in his hand, sensing the wolf following him closely. John puts down the remaining salt lines and when he steps back from the window he almost trips over the wolf as Sam is standing so close to him he is almost touching his leg. Not good.

With the house warded as best as he can there is nothing left to do but wait. There is no internet he can use, they are too far out in the woods for that, he knows the books they're currently driving around in the truck by heart and none of them mention something like this. He remembers the friend Bobby mentioned a few days ago, but they haven't heard anything from her ever since.

Suddenly, and without any warning, Sam starts to growl so deeply it immediately sets John's nerves on edge. The wolf had been standing next to him, but now he starts stalking toward the front door. His body language change, all of a sudden he seems to grow bigger, stiff, his head is rising, tail coming up, fur puffing up all over the lean body. His ears flatten so tightly against his head they practically disappear from his profile and he bares his fangs. Sam is staring at the door, the head dropping lower—

Before John can do anything, the front door is suddenly ripped open, crashing against the wall with enough force to make the windows rattle in their frames.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I apologize sincerely that it has taken me this long to update. Thanks to the other half of my online-soul I have been able to write this chapter, without her I fear I would have dropped the story. It was her who told me to stop writing at some point when I just couldn't find any words anymore. She told me to get back to the story once I felt like writing again and, what can I say, it worked. Thank you, hun.

Betaed by **Ghosty** the Unstucker. :D Everything that reads good is thanks to her, everything that doesn't is my mistake. Enjoy!

* * *

Sam stops growling.

The sudden, unexpected absence of sound in a tense situation like this immediately sets John's teeth on edge. He had been in the middle of turning to the door, but the ominous silence draws his gaze to where his son was glaring at the splintered door. And Sam—

Jesus _Christ._

Sam is standing in the middle of the room, unmoving. His posture has changed dramatically, Sam's head is down, his nose almost touching the floor. His whole body is shaking, white foam gathering at his muzzle and dripping, eyes squeezed shut. His tail, twice as big as its normal size, is held rigid, not moving an inch despite the heavy trembling of his shoulder and back. For just a second, the posture, the way the wolf holds his head, the way his eyes are closed so tight, it makes John flash back to a human Sam with a familiar expression, eyes closed as Sam grimaces against pain so severe he _can't_ make a sound. John's heart leaps into his throat, a sudden flash of panic cutting off his breath as he stares, he has never seen the wolf act like that, that human, that much like _Sam_, and for the first time in years, John has no idea how to handle the wolf.

"Sam!"

He doesn't realize he's shouting his son's name, has to force himself to turn away from him, from his obvious agony to watch the door, gun raised to cover Sam from whatever creature is doing this to him—

The door is empty, there is nothing to see, it's just an open door with sunlight streaming through it. The car is parking next to the porch, completely undisturbed, there is no sound, no movement…

Keeping his gun trained on the empty opening, John slowly starts to inch toward his son, ears straining to pick up a sound that doesn't belong here, anything that would give him a hint as to where their attacker might be.

"Sam…"

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam move, a shudder that runs through the tense body, stronger than the shaking. The wolf's head comes up, sharp teeth flashing in the sun, snapping at something John can't see from where he is standing. A hoarse, dark growl echoes through the large room and John has to fight against his instincts. He can't get to him, getting near Sam, right now, is the wrong thing to do, he will only put himself in danger if he gets too close, he has no idea how the wolf might react—

"Kill him."

The voice comes out of nowhere; calm, soft, its peaceful tone a frightening contrast to the meaning of the words.

Sam's head swings around in a fluid movement, barely open eyes zeroing in on John's throat. It's the eyes that have him stumble back in alarm, they are nothing like Sam's eyes, what little he can see of them looks _dead _and that can't be, it has to be a trick of the light, this isn't _Sam!_

John has about a heartbeat to panic before the wolf leaps off the ground, straight at him, the move so sudden John draws back, bringing his gun up before he can stop himself, finger tightening on the trigger, a reflex he can't suppress.

In mid-jump, the wolf crashes to the floor, yelping in pain, a bloodcurdling sound that tears through John's soul and his blood runs cold as he swears he can feel the jerk of the gun recoiling in his hand. _No! No no no nonono._ He can't breathe, there's no air left in his lungs, his gun drops from nerveless fingers as he moves for his son, needing to get to his side, to _help_ him.

He doesn't get far, something heavy crashes into the back of his legs, knocking him off his feet before he has taken more than a step. He's too focused on Sam to react in time, he tries to move, tries to roll to the side but there's the edge of the coffee-table too close to him and he is too slow to get out of the w—

* * *

Consciousness returns slowly, bit by bit. A sense of panic clings to him, follows him from the blackness of oblivion into the waking world, choking him before he gets the chance to figure out where—_who_ he is. The feeling creeps into his bones and stays there, stubbornly refusing to let go of him, adding to the confusion that makes up his mind.

Even with his eyes still closed he feels as if he is floating, but at least it's not bad enough to upset his stomach. He has a vague idea that getting sick might be a bad thing, but why, he can't say. There's a concept—a _word_ at the back of his mind, familiar, yet out of reach, he can't grasp it, but it gets stronger, drifts closer the longer he concentrates on it, ever closer, until—

—_the wolf leaps off the ground, straight at him, __his gun is up, finger tightening on the trigger—_

He bolts upright with a panicked shout—_"Sam!"_—and immediately regrets it, there's a blinding flash of hot light and pain _in_ his head and then he's falling… "Sam—" he gasps, not sure why his heart is slamming so hard against his ribs it feels like it wants to break out of his chest.

"Dad?"

A voice, a _presence_ beside him, close, too close! He lashes out, fist sailing through the air, ready to fight, to defend himself.

"Dad, stop, it's me, stop!"

Something closes around his wrist and pushes it down, holds it immobile. He starts to struggle against it, but there's no strength, he feels ridiculously weak and he can't be weak, not now, he wants—he _needs_ to get free and look for him, for _Sam_, something has happened to him, something horrible…

"Dad!"

Slowly, Sam's voice penetrates the fuzzy chaos in his head. John blinks and squints his eyes open. Sam's blurry face comes into view, gazing down at him, eyes wide and worried. One of his hands is still resting on John's wrist, trapping his arm against the floor. John looks up at him, dazed, mind reeling, fighting to make sense of it all.

"I— shot you?" he finally forces out, thinking he can't have but feeling so sure that's what happened.

Sam shakes his head. "No, you didn't, you didn't shoot me, I'm okay," he says, but that can't be true, John knows what he's seen—

"I saw you go down," he mumbles in a daze, gaze flicking to where the wolf had crashed to the floor. He expects to see blood, a lot of blood, but the floor is empty. A sharp tug at his arm brings his attention back to Sam.

"You didn't shoot me, I'm okay," Sam says, looking up at John's hairline. John becomes aware of something warm and wet then, it's running down his temple, dripping into his eye. "I think you've re-opened the head wound. Your concussion's back. You don't look…"

He doesn't feel good, not at all, a concussion would explain the confusion he just can't seem to shake off.

"What happened?" he asks, reaching up with his free hand to wipe at his eye.

Sam leans back, still watching him closely. And now that his heart has come back to its proper place and is no longer choking him to death, John can see that Sam is leaning against the couch for balance, almost clutching it as he answers.

"I don't know, I didn't see it, I think it knocked you into the coffee tab—"

Sam doesn't finish his sentence, suddenly his grip on John's arm tenses, fingers digging into John's wrist almost painfully. He makes a weird sound, somewhere between a hiss and a growl.

"Sam?"

Sam ignores John's startled question, he whips around and snarls at something behind his back.

"_Stop_ it!"

Panic and anger roll into one in Sam's voice and the underlying pain chases the last remaining feeling of disorientation out of his system. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his own head, John forces himself to sit up and follow Sam's gaze. The world immediately tilts before his eyes, starts to dim around the edges, but the sudden feeling of dread pushes it back, lets him focus on—

Nothing.

"It's still here…"

Sam's voice is strained and breathless and John looks back at him, noticing, for the first time, how bad Sam looks, he's pale and sweating, shaking uncontrollably. His eyes are clear and alert and he doesn't seem to be hurt, but the misery, the _pain_ John can read in his hunched posture tugs at his heart.

"Where is it?"

Sam nods at one of the armchairs near the fireplace.

"It says it won't allow you to see it."

John frowns, turning his head in the direction. All he can make out is an empty chair.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam tenses, shifts slightly to the side. "I was hoping it was ly_—aaah!_"

John jumps in time with Sam when the kid suddenly cries out in pain and doubles over, curling into himself, his head smacking into John's chest as Sam starts trembling all over. John reaches out and pulls him close, moving his own body to shield him—from the empty chair.

"Leave him alone!" he bellows angrily, ignoring how the movement and his own raised voice echo painfully inside his head. "Stop it!"

There is no reaction from the chair, but Sam slumps in his hold, becomes limp for a second and wheezes in a deep breath, groaning.

"Fuck _you_ …" he growls and sits up, turning again to focus on something behind them. "Forget it, I won't do it!"

John feels the familiar sliver of panic crawl down his back. "What's it saying?" he asks urgently, feeling way too exposed and _useless _and a sudden urge to _move_ makes his legs twitch.

Sam turns back to him, wiping sweat out of his eyes.

"It wants me to turn, it can get into my head better when I turn, it wants me to do things, it's in my head all the time, I can hear it—"

"Can you block it out?"

If anyone can do that, it has to be Sam, kid's a master of not hearing something if he doesn't want to. Sam nods, but he doesn't look very convinced.

"It's getting stronger."

"Okay, then," John says and starts to get up—

Before he can so much as blink Sam is in front of him, drawing himself to his full height, standing before John as he has done so often in the past days, gaze fixed straight ahead, eyes darkening dangerously, posture tense and stiff.

"Don't."

John can't tell if his son is talking to him or addressing the other, but he feels the hairs on the back of his neck go up and he wants to glare at something, point his gun at the threat, do _anything_ but stand helplessly in the middle of the room with his youngest acting as a human shield against a creature he can't fucking _see_.

"Sam—"

Sam tenses, takes a step away from John, toward the wall. "Leave him alone," he all but growls, voice going cold and threatening.

John hates this, hates every second of it, his kid standing in front of him, apparently between the monster and John, ready to take the hit for him, it's more than he can tolerate.

"Sam, get back," he snaps, straightening, reaching out to pull his son behind him.

Sam doesn't seem to be hearing him; his eyes never leave whatever he is seeing.

"No, I won't," he spats in the direction of the empty chair, shaking his head for emphasis. "You can't make me, I won't—"

He doesn't get any further, suddenly Sam is yelling in pain, swaying, crumbling to the ground, arms going around his head as he starts panting, banging his head against the floor as he tries to curl up.

John's had enough; he searches the floor for his gun and bends down to grab it, ignoring the sharp pain his sore ribs shoot through his side. Just because he can't see the thing, doesn't mean he won't hit it. He has a pretty good idea where it should be right now. It's part training and part protest of his body that brings him down on one knee in front of Sam as he whirls around and sends a bullet right where Sam had been staring at—

And misses, the bullet hits the wall, shattering a framed picture behind the chair. Behind him, Sam flinches at the shot and reaches out blindly, grabbing a hold of John's shirt and tugging at it weakly.

"No, stop, don't—shoot—can't make me—"

The rest of his sentence is cut off when Sam cries out again, trembling heavily against John's side.

Barely fighting back the urge to fling his gun across the room in frustration, John lowers it reluctantly, thoughts racing, going over the facts he's found out so far, searching for a way out while he moves backwards carefully, getting himself between his son and the invisible threat. He rests a hand on top of Sam's trembling shoulder, squeezing it helplessly, racking his brain for a way to help him.

It's not the first time he's up against something invisible, it's tricky fighting against something you can't see, but it's doable, he just has to find out where its weak spot is.

The thing is in the room with them and that means there is a chance that they might be able to hurt it somehow. Most creatures he has hunted had had a talisman or a spell that would cover them. That spell would usually work against _everyone_ in the vicinity, nobody would be able to look through it, they couldn't turn it off partially to allow a single person to see them. The thing being able to allow Sam to see it—or him _not_ to see it—leads him to the assumption that it has to be some kind of psychic power that can be controlled and that, in turn, would mean it is an ongoing effect, something the thing would have to concentrate on to some extent to hold it up.

Psychic powers also mean that, in most cases, exorcisms or the usual weapons like salt or holy water are likely not to work. The good news is that most psychics are not immune to ordinary bullets. You just have to be able to _see_ them, which brings him back to the most pressing problem they have at the moment.

He's shocked out of his thoughts when Sam once again slumps against him. Keeping the damned armchair in sight, he leans over his son.

"Sam?"

Sam doesn't answer right away, he stays curled on his side and seems to concentrate on his breathing. After a few deep breaths he finally opens his eyes and squints up at John—and he is _grinning_, an amused, slightly _crazy_ smirk that lights up his eyes and for a moment John fears his son's lost it.

"Are you okay?"

Instead of giving an answer, Sam slowly sits up, chuckling quietly as he catches his breath. "Oh, this is good…"

When he looks up, his eyes are still tearing up, but this time it seems to be from whatever is making him laugh instead of pain. John has no idea what to make of it, and instead of relaxing he shifts his weight nervously.

"What is it?"

Sam finally gets himself under control, running a hand through his hair as his laughter trails off.

"It wants me to attack you."

If this is supposed to be funny, John fails to see the humor. His confusion must show on his face because Sam frowns and cocks his head, looking at him as if he is missing something important.

"The spell? You know I _can't _attack you, Dad, the spell won't let me, for once the damned thing is actually _useful_…"

He sounds bitter and amused at the same time and John studies him for a moment.

He wants to feel relieved, he wants to be thankful that in a fucked up situation like this there is at least one thing working in their favor, one less threat to worry about… but he can't. And, for the life of him, he can't wrap his head around why Sam's words leave him with a strong sense of apprehension instead of the strangely jagged relief he can feel bounce off his son. He helps Sam sit up and his son leans against the couch. Despite the brief respite it becomes alarmingly clear that Sam isn't feeling well, he has trouble focusing and looks paler than before, his hands are shaking where they are resting on his knees. Fighting the thing's attempts to force him to change is taking a lot of energy out of the kid.

It's only then that John suddenly realizes that something about the whole situation is _wrong_.

"How can you be in this form?" he asks, finally catching up with the fact that Sam is in his human form even though there is a supernatural being close by.

Sam shrugs. "I have no idea, I woke up like this, but it's been trying to get me to change back from the moment I opened my eyes."

"What does it look like?"

"I can't see much, it has a cloak, a black cloak with a hood. It's about your height and—the eyes are glowing, kind of blue-ish. It has a _claw_, but with skin over it—Have you ever heard of anything like this before?"

John shakes his head. "No, nothing like this… How does it talk?"

Sam shudders. "It's in my head, it's so loud it hurts… It's English, but it sounds strange and—oh my _god_—"

He chokes out the last word and stiffens again, eyes going wide, then squeezing close as his body goes rigid.

"Not… again…" he gasps and brings his hands up, grinding the heels of them against his eyes.

John can't help it, his fingers tighten on the gun and he turns to the open room again, aiming the weapon at the armchair. "Stop it," he demands uselessly, _helplessly_, "stop it, he can't do it!"

There's no answer, whatever the thing is doing, it doesn't end, Sam doesn't stop moaning, doesn't stop curling further and further into himself.

"Leave him the hell alone, he _can't_ attack me, he's fucking _cursed,_" John roars at the empty seat, every cell of him screaming at him to do something already, help Sam, make it _stop_—

He can't, though, because the curse is stopping him, he's blocked because of it. Because John ordered him not to attack, and the thing ordered him to, and what Sam wants for his own body and mind and soul never figured into either command. And John watches as the conflict tears at his son and feels every twitch, every breathless gasp as a cut in his heart because this is half his doing, he could easily be whatever is in that chair—but he's not, he's NOT, he would never use Sam just because he can—

He isn't sure where the impulse comes from, but he acts on it; before he even knows what he is doing he is crouching over Sam, grabbing his arm and turning him so Sam is facing him. He shakes his shoulder, barking his name in a tense voice, willing Sam to open his eyes.

"Son, can you hear me?"

Sam is shaking so badly that maybe the short nod he gives might just be an involuntary twitch, but John doesn't care, he kneels down in front of his son and puts his hands on Sam's face, turning it toward him so he can have a better look at it. "Sam, open your eyes!"

Twisting and panting in his grasp, Sam manages to force his eyes open, the hazel of them barely visible through the slits. John takes a deep breath and concentrates, he's done this before and it never worked, but it's the only help he can offer. Keeping his voice as steady as he can he looks down at his son.

"Sam, don't change, stay in your human form, that's an _order_. You hear me, son? Stay in this form, don't change!"

He prays with all his might that this works, that with the order battling whatever is trying to influence his son Sam will no longer have to fight against it, will no longer be in agony right in front of his eyes.

And heaven—or whoever—seems to be listening.

Sam slumps against him as soon as the words have left John's mouth. Sam draws a shaky, deep breath and groans softly, leaning heavily against John's side as he gathers his strength. He's still shaking, gasping in air, he's still in pain, doesn't seem to be able to relax, and still, just being able to fight back, to stay human apparently makes everything manageable. For a moment, for just a second John lets himself admire the strength Sam shows in a situation like this, feels amazed that his son can pull through all of this and _not_ break—

"Oh god, this sucks…" Sam groans and sits up, and the moment is gone. John watches silently how Sam runs a shaky hand through his hair. He looks sick, too pale, but after a moment of gathering his wits he looks up at John, offering the ghost of a smile. "Thanks…"

"Better?"

He's done it again, given Sam contradictory commands, and he knows it hurts… but if he can give Sam even a sliver of control…

Sam nods slowly, frowning. "It hurts, and I can still hear that fucker, but I'm still human, which means that I can still fight…"

There is a world of defiance in his voice and John, who has had that tone aimed in his direction too often, could almost feel sorry for the monster. Almost.

"I can still hear it… but it doesn't hurt anymore." Sam blinks a few times and his eyes clear, color slowly creeping back into his face.

"Is the pain…?"

"I can deal."

And the topic is closed, even as Sam struggles to stay upright, shaking and his eyes tearing from a pain John knows he can't begin to understand.

"Where is it now?"

Sam looks up and behind him—and freezes, body tensing in alarm.

"It's gone—I can't see it…" he gasps and sits up, slowly, gaze flicking around the room nervously.

Cursing, John gets to his feet, wavering slightly as his head protests against the sudden movement. He has his gun out, useful or not, and turns slowly, scanning everything he _can_ see.

"It's still here," Sam says after a moment. "I can feel it, it's still in this room, but it won't let me see it…"

"That's it, we're leaving," John reaches down to help Sam get up from the floor. "Can you walk?"

Sam sways slightly on his feet, then pulls away from John, straightening. "I'm okay."

John nods, pushing Sam in front of him, glad that the door is only a few feet away, but Sam's steps falter before they really start moving and he stops, sucking in a strained breath.

"It's getting stronger…"

"Keep moving."

John pushes Sam toward the door, one hand on his shoulder to keep him moving, his body turned toward the room, gun raised. Behind him, Sam stumbles and John curses inwardly, the need to _fight_, to shoot at something already becoming so strong it's starting to make him itch. He needs to do something, fuck it, he needs to protect his kid from this—

Sam stops and whirls around, gasping out a horrified, "Dad, _no_—"

Suddenly all there is… is _pain—_

And John is no longer alone in his head.

**STAY**

It's a simple word, a short word, an _order_. It reverberates through his skull at full volume, it drowns out all other sound, every sensation. It feels like a punch to his brain, as if he has been struck by lightning. He loses complete control of his body, of _everything_; his vision goes black, all sound disappears, he can't tell whether he is upright anymore, if he is even breathing, the whole world ceases to exist—


End file.
